


I'd Rather Take A Bullet For You (Than See You Hurt Again)

by randombitsofstars



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: And Eames' Badass Mother, Angry Eames, Badass Arthur, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Competent Arthur, Gore, Graphic descriptions of war, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Long Time to Establish Plot, M/M, Protective Eames, Slow Burn, bullet wounds, hurt Arthur, job gone wrong, lots of shooting, mentions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 80,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randombitsofstars/pseuds/randombitsofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has been taking odd jobs after the events of the inception, trying to distance himself from the team. It's just a coincidence that Arthur's in London, where Eames is, when these jobs get him into trouble. Arthur is the point man, he's supposed to know these things. </p><p>What Arthur wasn't expecting was Eames' mother to be living there as well...</p><p>Lots of Hurt/Comfort Arthur/Eames later on. Be warned, slow burn as plot is established pretty slowly.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the Job Goes Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this fic! Chapter One is mostly world-building and establishing how things began to go to shit.
> 
> Please comment, criticize, and leave kudos.  
> Let me know if there's anything in the Hurt/Comfort area you want to see in this fic. Eames is going to be so annoyingly protective of Arthur, I promise.  
> <3

Arthur is very precise. He has to be, he’s the point man. In fact, one of the most well reputed point men in the dreamsharing world, both legal and not, for a very good reason. Arthur knows everything. He makes sure of it.

After the Fischer inception took place, Arthur tried to distance himself from anyone on the team for a while. He had to let go of his iron-tight hold on the facts, and give some work to the new team members around him. Arthur hated it, but there was nothing else he could do. Besides putting the original team in danger by subjecting them to another mission, they weren’t even interested in another job at the moment.

Cobb was too busy fawning over his children to work in dreamsharing, and Ariadne was once again wrapped up in university life. Yusuf had vanished into the wind, and Eames… well, Arthur knew exactly where Eames was. He justified to himself that Eames was a great professional to work with, and that’s why Arthur knew that at this _exact_ moment Eames was in London getting shitfaced at some hole-in-the-wall bar. _Just a professional curiosity_ , Arthur reasoned. That one little heated encounter the night after the inception where they both got a little too buzzed and ended up telling secrets like sixteen year olds at a sleepover just didn’t count. They were both former military; of course they had plenty of war stories and gossip. It meant nothing that Arthur had never gossiped with a colleague before. Absolutely nothing.

So coincidentally Arthur found himself in London as well. And, for the first time in a long time, Arthur was deigning to work with a slightly shifty team. The extractor, Sandy, wouldn’t make direct eye contact with anyone – and looked a little too much like that serial killer who had never been convicted in the States. Hans looked more like a club bouncer than an architect, but Arthur found his work passable. The fact that Hans’ projections looked more like former Navy SEALs than normal people was something Arthur was willing to overlook. The chemist, Ray, was a man of Moroccan descent who spoke seven languages, though none of them English. However, again Arthur had vetted him, and Ray stood against the scrutiny, so Arthur allowed him on the team. Finally, the forger, Emilia. She was a soft spoken Spaniard, so good at blending in with her surroundings Arthur was surprised she didn’t just melt into the wall. Even though she wasn't particularly dangerous or unpredictable, Emilia was so different than Eames’ loud, flirtatious way of scoping out the mark that Arthur found himself discomfited. _Why should I care if she’s different from_ _Eames_?Arthur thought. _It’s not like Eames is the gold standard._

The problem was, in Arthur’s mind, for some inexplicable reason, suddenly Eames was.

 

***

 

The job was easy. A simple extraction. Get into an investment banker’s head, find the passwords to her stock portfolio, and then get out.

The son, named Colin, was paying for the job. He was an average guy by all accounts. He just happened to have information that the medical stock in a certain pharmaceutical drug, owned almost completely by his mother, Eva Jansen, was about to increase in value by 400%. As per Arthur's instructions, the man was paying them all in cash, half before the job and half after. Once that was secured, Arthur set off to work. He would’ve questioned the son more about his motives, but Sandy had asked to handle the son's profile. Arthur felt unsettled by the loss of control, but he had no reason to deny her request. Sandy's track record, or at least the information that Arthur could gather, was absolutely impeccable.

They had a small window for the job, but the setting was ideal. Eva Jansen was temporarily working at a lowered security banking area, because the last one had been flooded by a particularly harsh rainstorm. Arthur could almost hear Eames saying, _a bank in London not prepared for a little rain? Disgraceful, darling._ In any case, Arthur was happy about this turn of events, as was the rest of the team. With his usual attire and attitude, Arthur found that it was laughably easy to case the building, chat up the employees, and find a place to set up camp during the job. Ray would lure the mark into an abandoned private meeting room, and the plan would be set into action.

If Arthur expected any problems with the London job, it wasn’t the job itself, rather the co-workers he chose to surround himself with. He hated giving up some responsibly to other members of the team, but even Arthur had to concede he couldn’t do everything.

During the test runs that Arthur oversaw, Hans’ reconstruction of London was surprisingly accurate. “For a man with a German accent, you sure know London,” Sandy had muttered. For his part, Arthur made sure everything had been organized to the second, and waited patiently for their mark to simply waltz in the meeting room with Ray. Sandy and Hans waited impatiently in the corner beside him, while Emilia practiced the facial expressions of the son one last time. She would be distracting Eva by “taking her mother out to lunch” while the whole process of finding the passwords went down.

Ray, minutes later, successfully lured Eva into the room, with promises of growth charts and progress report sheets that had somehow failed to make it to the right floor of the banker’s work that day. It helped that Ray spoke Dutch, Eva’s native language. She had been “helplessly charmed” according to Ray (Ray bragged in fluent French to Arthur as they shot her up with the sedative).

Everyone flew into action. The door was closed. Ray handled the drugs, getting everyone set up in their respective chairs. Arthur, still disgruntled, had reluctantly agreed to be put under as well. Ray had argued (in German this time, to Hans’ relief) that he had extensive training in both hand to hand combat and firearms situations, having been in some obscure resistance group or another in Africa. Plus, Ray stated to Sandy (this time in Italian) that this job had little to no risk in the real world, seeing as how no one blinked if the banker took “a sick day” (Arthur’s skills hacking through the company’s firewall took care of that record).

The last thing Arthur saw before shutting his eyes was Ray’s curly black hair above him. He was making some kind of gesture and saying something in Turkish. Arthur does not speak any Turkish.

The second they were in the dreamscape, Emilia waved nervously, now looking the part of the son, and bolted off into the crowd to find Eva.

But as soon as Arthur entered the dreamscape, something felt off to him.  As the rest of the group began to walk through Hans’ London, it looked a shade too much like Eastern European architecture. Eva's projections looked even more hostile than Hans' had been in the test runs (and Arthur hadn’t thought that was completely possible up until now). His pressed shirt suddenly felt a size too small under his suit jacket, and his coiffed hair was shaken in a breeze that hadn’t been there during the test runs. Looking over at his partners, Hans and Sandy looked similarly uneasy. Hans was running his obscenely large hands through his thick blond hair, his muscles straining through the military issue t-shirt. Sandy was sending a fierce death glare into the ground, and her Fall Out Boy hoodie was looking more ratty than normal. “Somezing iz not _richtig_ , Arthur.” Hans’ blue eyes looked worriedly into Arthur’s own, more emotion showing on his tan face than Arthur had ever seen. “It feels like ze day Bayern lost to Mönchengladbach, and that was not a _gut_ day.”

Arthur looked back to him levelly as the three continued their trek into the heart of the city. “I don’t watch football,” Arthur stated, his hand instinctively lying on the holster for his Glock. “But I tend to agree with you, Hans. Something is off. Stay alert.” Once in the main square area, they approached the conspicuous looking building ahead of them, obviously the place where Eva’s subconscious was storing its info. As they drew closer, Arthur was the first to realize what the structure was. _Of course Eva would pick a bank as the secret keeper for her passwords_ , Arthur thought. _So predictable._

“Let’s just finish the job,” Sandy stated, her fingers twisting in the black strings of her hoodie. “The son confirmed she’s definitely not militarized, she doesn’t even know about the dreamsharing world.”

Arthur did not like how Sandy had taken the son’s word at face value, and silently berated himself for letting Sandy handle any of the preparations. _I need my old team back_ , Arthur thought bitterly.

“Tell me again vhy the de son has an American accent while ze mother does not?” Hans asked, opening the door to the imposing bank.

Arthur took flank, ushering in Sandy and Hans ahead of him, keeping a solid grip on the large glass doors. “He studied abroad in the U.S. and decided to stay there,” Arthur replied, reflexively straightening his tie once the bank’s door closed behind them. He hated feeling the scrutiny of people. He liked be the observer, not the observed. Something still wasn’t right.

“The projections are still paying too much attention to us, Sandy,” Arthur said quietly, his hand straying back to the familiar outline of his Glock.

“We’re _fine_ , Arthur, stop micromanaging. I did my research. Hans, go chat up the lady at the reception desk. Arthur, I’ll go crack the safe in the back while you stay on watch, _like we talked about_ , unless you want to abort?” Sandy tone conveyed that if Arthur wanted to stop the operation, he was going to have to dispatch her if he wanted to leave the meeting room unscathed.

Arthur again thought of Eames, and how he said sometimes fake acquiescence was better than starting a fight with teammates.

“Fine.” Arthur stated, already moving smoothly towards the entrance. His mind began to formulate exit strategies and options for cover under gunfire. Hans put on his best _I am a lost attractive tourist help me_ face and began moving toward the receptionist. Arthur couldn’t believe it worked, but with that chest and arms, Hans got most things that he wanted, good actor or not.

Sandy, looking out of place in her casual attire, slipped off her hoodie (and threw it into one of the potted plants) to reveal a no-nonsense black blazer and black pencil skirt. _She likes black an awful lot,_ Arthur thought. _Needs a wardrobe upgrade._

Sandy disappeared around the corner, heading towards the safe visible at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t an imposing one, just as Arthur had expected. _The mark is not aware, we’re okay,_ Arthur reassured himself as he took a calculated seat near the entrance. _Why aren’t you trusting your gut, dear Arthur?_ Eames’ voice seemed to whisper in Arthur’s ear, causing him to tense up. He was sweating. Arthur looked at Hans. Sweat was beading on his forearms as well. _Not good,_ Arthur thought. _Change in temperature almost always means a change in the mark’s subconscious._ Arthur wished Eames had been their forger.

“How are you doing, Emilia?” The whole team had earpieces, only to be used under emergencies. But, damn it, Arthur was feeling emergency-like at the moment.

Emilia’s comms crackled to life. “…Arthur?” Her voice, even quieter than normal, whispered through the speaker.

“Ez everything _gut_ , Emilia?” This time Hans was talking from his place across the room.

“No, Hans, no. Eva was suspicious of me. Apparently I was acting ‘too nice’! She thought I was trying to con her or something. I’m hiding in an alley right now. The projections were studying me too intently.”

 _Fuck._ Arthur swore to himself silently. He knew Emilia hadn’t been studying the son’s mannerisms enough. But her projection of him was so convincing that the rest of the team had outvoted Arthur, saying they were ready for the operation. “It’s alright, Emilia. Just tell us – where was Eva heading?” Arthur found himself trying to reassure Emilia, if only to get information out of her.

“Um, she was going towards the center of town. That one building. I think it was a bank or something?”

Arthur heard Hans swear in German across the room, right before he noticed the receptionist projection pulling something out from under the counter. Arthur shut off the comms with one hand while unholstering his Glock with the other. Arthur walked briskly across the room, shedding his suit jacket, just in time to see the receptionist bringing out a sub-machine gun, and heading towards where Sandy was trying to crack the safe. _What the fuck?_

Arthur lined up his Glock and shot the receptionist point blank in the side of the head. Blood splattered across his red tie and silky vest, his suit jacket abandoned on the chair behind him. “ _Danke_ , Arthur! Nice shot! I vas a little busy!” Hans kicked away suddenly the mountain of projections who had slid upon him, sliding out what looked like three pistols from the depths of his cargo pants, just as more projections tried to crash through him to the safe area.

Eva was militarized. There was no other explanation. Arthur parried a roundhouse kick from one female projection in a red dress while shooting another in the leg. Hans stabbed one 60 year-old rabid older lady with his combat knife, while head butting another away.

Sandy already had at least ten minutes with the safe. They had less than a half hour left in the dream, regardless. “Sandy!” Arthur called, strangling a man by his pinstripe tie. “Are you almost done?”

“It’s a Gardall! A bit better than we were expecting!” Arthur felt his stomach drop out from under him, or maybe it was the puncture wound from the stapler that had been jabbed into his side. They had been set up by someone.

Arthur pistol-whipped another banker in his haste to get to Hans, breaking another projection's leg with his foot as he went. “Hans, have you noticed the projections are more interested in getting past us than killing us?” Arthur pulled a stout man in a blue suit off of Hans’ leg. He silenced the man's scrabbling fingers by breaking the delicate bones of his hand with a well-placed smack from his Glock.

“ _Nein_ , Arthur, vhat are you talking about?” Hans had to shout to be heard as he pulled another gun from his side, this time a Smith and Wesson revolver.

“They want Sandy, not us.” The moment Arthur said the realization, he knew it was true. “Eva’s not militarized – not in the normal way, Hans. Her projections aren’t great fighters. But – but they want Sandy. They _know_ Sandy.”

Hans opened his mouth to reply. But then the short man Arthur had pulled off Hans’ leg whipped out a pistol with his uninjured hand. He aimed shakily and shot Hans,  right in the side of the head.

 


	2. Ripped to Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the dream plunges further into chaos, Arthur finds his time to complete the mission is running out.  
> In addition, he meets an unlikely companion in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a horrible person! I know I promised Eames in this chapter, and he's definitely referenced a lot! But I have to establish some key points before getting to what everyone wants. :P Don't worry, Eames will appear soon!  
> I hope you all can understand the struggle it is to develop good, descriptive plot.
> 
> ********Spoiler********  
> I did my research, some people do survive a bullet to the head (see Gabby Giffords) as long as it's not to the brain, although in most cases you bleed out regardless.  
> ********End Spoiler*****
> 
> 10 points to anyone who has an hypothesis on why Eva's subconscious (and Eva) is so screwed up. ;)  
> All is not that it seems...  
> Enjoy reading and please leave comments and kudos. <3

Arthur’s military experience had trained him to act efficiently, especially in a crisis. So when Hans was shot by the projection, Arthur was already there, killing the shooter with a well-placed shot from his Glock. Arthur paused, taking stock of the situation. His arm was in agonizing pain where it had been twisted back by a feral projection, and his side stung where he had been impaled by the stapler. Arthur could feel bruises forming across the side of his body, and wished he had time to rip off his suit vest. Mechanically Arthur aimed into the crowd, throwing out the original plan of stealth. All he cared about now was keeping the projections away from the back hallway where Sandy was working.

As Arthur moved, he realized he was covered in blood. _Good thing this isn't real life, or I'd have to throw out another suit_.

He was on the lookout for a rabid Eva, since that seemed to be what all of this was coming down to. One thought kept reoccurring through his mind, in time with the throbbing of his left wrist (which was probably broken) - _I wish Eames was here to back me up._ Suddenly his obnoxiously inappropriate humor seemed to be missing from an altogether bleak picture.

Like some kind of dam that had been broken, Hans’ shooting had set the projections into an even higher pitched frenzy. Before, Hans and Arthur had been successfully repelling the projections from reaching the safe, but now the team was one man down. Arthur had no back up.

The projections trampled over the inert body of Hans, determined to reach Sandy. Arthur chased after them, checking for Hans’ pulse along the way. Miraculously, there was a faint rapid fluttering. Against Arthur’s original thoughts, the bullet hadn’t killed Hans instantly. Arthur remembered something he had learned in military dreamsharing – a penetrating head injury places almost instantaneous death at 92%. That is to say, although it was rare, sometimes the enemy could live, albeit temporarily. _Hans is the 8% - Sandy might still have time._

 _I have to stall for progress with the safe_ , Arthur thought grimly, and raised his Glock once again. The mob of projections, which was twenty plus people pouring in at all entrances, rushed towards the back of the bank. Arthur dispatched as many as he could, kicking, punching, shooting, and turned on his comms, trying to warn Sandy before they were all pushed out of the dream. “Sandy! Projections coming your way! Sandy!”

 Arthur thought he could hear faint yelling down the hallway, but it seemed more remote than it had earlier. For some reason Sandy didn’t have her comms active, or had lost them.  _Sandy didn’t tell us something. This is completely wrong. The projections should care about Hans and I. He’s the dreamer, and I’m an accomplice. Never mind the safe; they should try to kill us too!_

As Arthur turned to the corner, blood spattered onto his face from another dispatched projection ( _Infinite bullets, darling, it’s the best,_ Eames had once remarked). After making the corner, Arthur realized why Sandy’s voice had seemed so much farther away than before – because it was. In Hans’ last lucid moments, he must have thought of more architecture leading to the safe. Like a scene out of Harry Potter, infinite staircases, these being completely mirrored, twisted in all directions, confusing the most adept militarized mind.

Another projection slammed into Arthur as he took in Hans’ final masterpiece. Arthur was hit hard enough he was knocked to his knees, his Glock sliding across the marble and onto one of the moving staircases. Arthur got into a defensive position, prepared for hand-to-hand combat. To his astonishment, he realized a slim hand was being held out to his aid. _What kind of projection offers help to an enemy dreamer?_

Arthur’s eyes trailed up the slim shaking hand, to a pale arm dotted with freckles, and then to a heart-shaped face, creased with age and framed by a mess of brown waves. Finally, Arthur met panicked hazel eyes. With a start, he realized who it was. Arthur was looking into the face of Eva Jansen.

 

***

 

In the space of a second, Arthur’s mind flashed through a sequence of thoughts. _It must be some kind of trick. Why would she help me?_ Arthur was dumbfounded. Here, the target, in the dreamscape, was offering her help to the person employed to steal her secrets. _Let’s see where this goes,_ Arthur thought. Offering his best beguiling smile (once again wishing Eames was there to deliver his over-the-top charm), Arthur took her hand and stood up.

Aware of the time being wasted by this encounter, Arthur opened his mouth to cut to the chase. Eva beat him to it.

“Oh my god, you look familiar, you work with me at CurrencyCorp, correct? Do you have any idea what’s going on? Wow, you’re in rough shape. Who hurt you? Was it my son? There’s blood everywhere and my son tried to distract me from coming to work and I’m panicking and-” Arthur cut off Eva’s lilting accent the second he realized what was going on.

“Yes, Eva Jansen? My name’s Eames. I’ve heard so much about your work! I’m a temporary intern here, I came to work, and all this happened. There’s a safe a woman is trying to move to protect from these people, do you know about that?” Arthur did his best to seem like a scared, star struck intern, using the first name that popped into his head. Eva’s subconscious seemed to remember Arthur when he cased her building, and for some reason Eva now associated him as a friend. _I can work with this_ , Arthur thought, discreetly adjusting his arm so his empty gun holster was hidden.

“A safe?” Eva’s eyes alighted with recognition. “There’s – there’s something important there, I know that… I don’t know why… you said there’s a woman trying to save it from this?”

“Yes, and we have to go help her,” Arthur smoothly replied. They had already wasted time with the introductions. _I’ve never worked with my own mark before… but I guess there’s a first for everything._

Arthur took a hold of one of Eva’s arms, gently pulling her behind him. Eva seemed to be intently focused on Arthur’s face, for some reason. _I can work with this._ Arthur preformed a complicated maneuver as they climbed onto one of the moving stairways, grabbing his Glock and sliding it out of Eva’s sight, simultaneously propelling her in front of him.

Arthur knew from working on cases with Cobb that ‘infinite staircases’ really have the right-hand rule that applies to mazes. That is, to get through the constantly moving staircases, a person has to always take the path to the right. Eva blindly followed  as Arthur hopped from staircase to staircase, always taking the right hand path when offered. _What would Eames think of me now? Hopping like a bunny through a maze of mirrors, during a fucked up operation, with the same person I’m trying to target in tow?_ Arthur shook himself, trying to focus on the projections coming into sight. _Why do I care what Eames thinks? I don’t. Focus._

As they ran and jumped, Arthur’s instinctual scanning of the dreamscape began to notice wavers in the marble walls around them. Arthur  tried to calculate how long it had been since Hans was shot - at least five minutes. _He’s going to wake up soon and we haven’t even reached Sandy yet._

Finally, Arthur and Eva came upon the group of projections. Arthur was feeling out of breath, and his whole body hurt. He was not ready to fight middle aged bankers with staplers.

But, miraculously, with Eva in tow, the projections totally ignored them, still meandering forward onto random staircases. Arthur kept towing Eva towards the right staircase, but she pulled him back, slowing him down as he dragged her along. “Why are people acting so weird? I know that guy, that’s Hank, from Accounting. He looks so… unhinged. This can’t be real.”

 _Can’t have her start questioning reality now_ , Arthur thought.

  _There’s a reason you’re in this business, darling, you lie all the time. Lie to her. What would I say?_ Eames’ voice whispered encouragingly into Arthur’s ear.

“Um, Eva,” Arthur began hesitantly, keenly aware of the time running out as more tremors ran within the walls.

“Yes, Eames?” Eva asked.

 _Weird hearing her call me that._ “Okay, so the safe I told you about, there’s been a huge breach in CurrencyCorp, you know, our work. Apparently the secret in this safe is important enough the rival company has been threatening your - our - co-worker’s families. These people are desperate to get this secret. So, we need to get to that woman, and, ehm, ask her what we can do to get out unscathed. Listen and follow me, and we’ll be fine.” Eva blanched, and turned even paler, but motioned for Arthur to lead the way. She shook off his grip on her arm, squeezed his hand, and took a steadying breath.

“Let’s go.” With Eva’s full compliance, Arthur made much better headway, finally, finally, reaching the other side of the marble floor. Spotting Sandy, Arthur jumped off the last stairway and sprinted the last 10 meters, Eva following close behind. The tremors were getting worse, and even Eva started to glance around them at the walls, brow furrowed.

“Hi!” Arthur called, keeping up the pretense of being an innocent intern.  “We need help. People are coming after you.” At this point Sandy had turned partly around, confusion written all over the side of her face. She still crouching next to the safe, but her earpiece lay dangling out of her ear.

“Do you know what this safe is all about? Have you opened it?” Arthur continued, trying to subtly see if the mission was complete.

“Almost there,” Sandy called, turning all the way around, rising out of her crouch. “I just need to-” Eva let out a startled gasp, stepping back. The tremors in the walls had migrated to the floor as well, spreading like cracks in ice, ripping the dream apart.

“I- I know you!” Eva said frantically, pointing a shaking finger at Sandy. “You’re bad! You’re an enemy! Get back. GO AWAY!” Eva’s pitch was quickly reaching hysterical. She frantically looked over at Arthur for confirmation.

“No, no she’s helping us, Eva. Remember? Those other people are-” But Eva was beyond reason, something having convinced her that Sandy was the devil. Her whole body was shaking in time with the fissures, and Sandy's tone of voice had plunged straight into insane territory. Her wide, panicked eyes suddenly flicked to Arthur’s waist.

Arthur followed her gaze, to where his Glock was resting back in its holster.

As if in slow motion, Eva slid, scrambling across the marbled floor, Sandy’s face looking nonplussed over her shoulder.  Eva’s slim hands reached for Arthur’s gun, but Arthur beat her to it, wrenching the Glock out of her reach with his left hand. Arthur held his right hand out in a placating gesture.

“Eames, EAMES, SHOOT HER! SHE’S HORRIBLE! SHE’S AN ABOMINATION! MY SON TOLD ME! EAMES!”

“Eva, Ms. Jansen, calm-” Arthur began, but then the projections were once more upon them, scrambling off the staircases and onto the marble floor, now completely overrun with fissures.

They only had seconds until Hans died, and the dream ended. 

The projections, now numbering in the hundreds, swamped their group. Arthur fell to the ground under the weight of two men in matching grey suits, his Glock knocked easily out of his hand with a jolt to his bad wrist. Shooting pains traveled up his arm under the weight of the men. Arthur saw stars as his head smacked against the wavering floor.

As Arthur was pinned to the ground under the men, his world turned on its side. Arthur saw Sandy’s heels in the corner of his vision, among the throng of people. Suddenly, a familiar freckled arm reached toward his Glock, meters away from him. A shot rang out, and the frenzy projections suddenly quieted. The thump of a body hitting the ground was the only sound throughout the unstable dream.

The projections moved off of Arthur. He shakily climbed to his feet, and saw the motionless form of Sandy, her face frozen in a surprised expression, eyes staring vacantly. Eva stood a meter away, red specks staining the front of her white and black polka dot blouse. Eva turned toward Arthur, blood dotting along her nose like a spray of freckles.

“I killed her, Eames. I killed the abomination. We can leave now.” As Eva delivered her speech hollowly, she pressed the Glock to her head.

Arthur realized with a start one of the men with the grey suits had pulled out a similar weapon, and was now pressing it against Arthur's coiffed black hair.

A line of sweat broke free from Arthur's forehead, running down the side of his temple.

Arthur distantly heard dual bangs as both the projection’s gun and his Glock discharged.

The dream was swallowed by blackness as Arthur's eyelids slid shut.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur enters reality with a bang. Or a few.  
> Gunshots, that is.

As always, Arthur didn’t open his eyes right away upon regaining consciousness. This was good, because Arthur realized three things:

One - He was tied to his chair with some kind of rope, and the proficiency of the knots was unknown, unless Arthur fancied moving and alerting the captor. Which he didn’t. Not yet.

Two - He could hear Sandy arguing with an unknown male in the room, with Hans’ muffled cursing as the backdrop. Wait – muffled?

Three – He knew he should’ve gone on vacation after the inception. Cobb was right, he worked too hard. Too late to worry about that, Arthur supposed. If he got out of this mess, he was buying himself a ticket far, far away. Preferably somewhere with mountains. Arthur liked skiing. Not the beach though. Suits don’t work too well in hot weather. Sand was too messy. Sand. Sandy. Arthur needed to focus. _What’s my problem lately?_

Arthur had just resigned himself to opening his eyes when he was slapped across the right check. Hard. His neck took the brunt of the recoil, snapping viciously to the left. It took every ounce of willpower in Arthur’s being not to flick open his eyes to catalog who he was going to murder.

_Charming._

“Why isn’t this fucker up yet?” The American male who had been arguing with Sandy must have decided to come over and slap some encouragement into Arthur’s motionless form.

Emilia’s timid voice piped up from Arthur’s left. “He might not be out of the dream yet, if he wasn’t killed.”

Any competent person involved in dream sharing would know Emilia’s statement was a load of crap. Hans, the dreamer, was awake; therefore any other member of the team would be kicked back to the surface as soon as the dream collapsed. Seeing as how Hans had been shot in the head, the dreams should've collapsed within seconds. Anyone in the business would know this. Arthur perked up - this was important, because for Emilia to be able to slide this one over, the assailant must not be from a past job.

 _Male, American, ignorant_. Arthur knew a lot of people matching this description, but only one made sense in the context of their situation.

Colin Jansen had decided to collect, without paying.

A stream of French erupted from Arthur’s right.

“What the hell did that terrorist just say?” Colin’s Jansen’s voice showed undertones of a European accent, now that Arthur knew what to listen for.

“Ray said he knows a stimulant that can wake Arthur up, he just needs to go back over there to find the correct drug.” Again, Emilia talked from Arthur’s left, near the door of the meeting room.

“Fine. Whatever. Adam, get Mohammed over there out of his restraints, and keep an eye on him while he wakes up pretty boy.”

There was some unintelligible shuffling, time in which Arthur felt the proficiency of the knots restraining his hands. His arm ached as he pulled, but Arthur ignored it. He was fairly confident he could work out of them, he just needed a few minutes. _Time I don’t have_ , Arthur realized glumly. Sandy had gone back to arguing with Colin, but Arthur knew he couldn’t stay ‘unconscious’ for long.

 Before Arthur could form any more ideas about their situation, he felt the brush of Ray’s curly hair against his left ear, away from all the commotion. Someone was feeling his pulse. In quiet Italian, Ray whispered, “ _Colin Jansen. Two bodyguards. Eva was knocked unconscious again, by her son. Sandy knows them all. Be on your guard – I’m going to pretend to inject this into you, now._ ” Arthur felt a slight pressure at his wrist, and then it was gone.

“ _Er ist wach_ ,” Ray proclaimed in German. Arthur took this as his cue, and groaned, rolling his head around in a circle. His joints popped, readying themselves for a fight. Arthur froze in mock astonishment as soon as he “realized” he was restrained, and his eyes shot open.

Arthur was greeted by quite the sight. The door was still firmly shut, blocked by a restrained Emilia. She seemed to be bound by jumper cables. Slumped against her in another chair was an unconscious Eva, her temple steadily trickling blood. _Violent blow to the head_ , Arthur mused. _Why was Colin so angry with her?_

A man in a black button down stood next to Eva, holding what looked like to be a handgun with a suppressor. On Arthur’s right, Sandy, Hans, and Ray were also bound. Hans had a strip of duct tape pressed over his mouth, and having been judged as the largest threat, had a man (who Arthur presumed to be ‘Adam’), pointing a pistol (also equipped with a suppressor) at his head. And finally, in front of Arthur, stood a man with wavy brown hair, smiling with all of his teeth - and none of the warmth.

“Hello,” the man who Arthur assumed to be Colin Jansen drawled. “We’re going to have a little chat, all of us, about those wonderful passcodes.”

“And if I yell to the oblivious bankers outside these meeting room walls?” Arthur questioned, picking at the knot encasing his wrists together. He vaguely noted that Colin was wearing a paisley shirt, quite like the ones Eames was fond of wearing. Arthur, motivated by the hideous sight, picked at his restraints more determinedly.

“They would not hear you,” Colin replied smugly, polishing his suppressed Sig Sauer on his pants. “Currently, the nearest employees to us, besides my dear mother, are outside, hoping for it not to rain, as they have been evacuated by a bomb scare. There seems to have been an anonymous caller stating that he was going to blow up this building today.” Arthur inwardly deflated a little. It would be harder to escape without the distraction of other people. Sinking farther into his chair, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye.

“And why have you tied us up, Colin?” Arthur questioned bitingly, simultaneously glancing out of his peripheral vision. “Have you forgotten that we are working for you?” Emilia was motioning subtly about something, pretending to itch her shoulder with her chin. _What was she trying to say?_  One of Arthur’s hands was free of the hemp rope, clutching the slack between his fingers.

“As your colleague no doubt informed you, I have more than just the transfer of stocks riding on this interaction.” At the bewilderment Arthur was quick to disguise, Colin smirked even more, jerking his gun over to Sandy. She was glaring, not gagged, although she didn’t utter a word in response. “You mean she didn’t tell you? During my lovely stay in the US of A, I met some _interesting_ individuals that led me to my line of work today.”

Arthur snorted, trying to puzzle out Emilia’s continued tick while working one-handedly on a tight knot circling the base of his wrist. “You are referring to your exemplary record as a paper pusher, I assume?”

“No, sweetheart,” Colin snarled, clicking the safety off his Sig. “My side job. Hypnosis.”

Hans took this revelation as a cue to knock Adam with the back of his heavy office chair, aiming for the gun in the grunt’s hands. Without taking his eyes off Arthur, Colin pointed his gun to his left, and fired, shooting Hans in the upper thigh.

A scream of anguish tore through Hans’ gag, and he crumpled to the floor, his chair pressing on top of him.

“Are you done interrupting now?” Colin asked, rolling his brown eyes. “I’m trying to outline exactly how your friend ‘Sandy’ here fucked you over. At least hold the theatrics until I’m ready to kill you.” Arthur finally realized Emilia had been gesturing to Arthur’s gun. The Glock was lying by other mercenary next to Emilia, at his feet. Arthur didn’t see the huge advantage that Emilia seemed to think it gave them, but he blinked twice in an affirmation that he had received the message.

“Anyway,” Colin continued, and lurched forward, whipping across Arthur’s left cheek with the barrel of his gun. Arthur neck cracked the other way, protesting against the harsh abuse. “Listening now? I met this wonderful murderer during my time in America. She, as I learned from one of my contacts, was a known serial killer; targeting people who were whistleblowers. But not ordinary narcs - snitches on what my associates called the ‘dream-sharing’ world. I had been working odd jobs as a hypnotist, hired by all sorts of people desperate to convince their loved ones of horrible things – cheating being morally sound, murder equaling justice, pedophilia being natural…” Colin trailed on, continuing his clichéd bad guy monologue, enjoying Sandy’s ( _or whichever name she is to Colin_ , Arthur thought bitterly) widening eyes. Arthur’s mouth was filling up with blood from where he had been smacked with the handgun, bruises forming across his jawbone. His wrist was starting to bleed from the escape effort, and surprisingly, the knot had been tied well enough on his right hand he was having significantly more trouble loosening it.

“So, of course, as someone who is paid to alter people’s perceptions, I was keenly interested in this dreamsharing world. Hypnosis is only effective if the subject is willing. But to have a type of persuasion that was 100% effective? That would be heaven.” Colin’s eyes glinted, but his expression soured as he looked at Sandy again. “So my friends and I asked around, clueless college students, and made what was judged to be a little too much racket, trying to edge into this lucrative business.” Colin leaned forward, stroking Arthur’s bleeding cheekbone with the tip of his handgun. “And you know what happened next?”

“I can’t say I care,” Arthur replied, gritting his teeth as the barrel was pushed into the cut. Colin twisted the cold metal around, ripping the gash open even further.

“You should care, because your friend here decided to kill the ring leader of my group, my best friend. And that’s why I’m here today. Vengeance, sweetheart. Not only for the bitch that killed Ryan, but for THE REST OF YOU BOURGEOIS FUCKERS IN THIS FUCKING BUSINESS!” Colin’s tone escalated, slightly crazed.

Hans lay twitching on the floor, his blood forming a widening sanguine pool as Arthur contemplated his options. Ray looked tiredly compliant in the corner; and Sandy glared at the side of Colin’s head. Both of Colin’s hired help seemed used to his rants, looking professionally blank.

“You elitists wouldn’t let me enter the business, and now you’ll regret it!” Colin was now twitching with rage. “You think a hypnotist isn’t worthy?! Well, I got my dumbass mother to let you guys waltz past her defenses, only to kill herself as soon as she noticed that bitch swiping the codes! You played right into my hands!”

Arthur twitched, recognizing all-too-well the signs of a soldier ready to crack, ready to leave the barracks and shoot up the entire camp. _If only I could reach my Glock…_ His eyes strayed to the side, and Colin finally realized no one was paying complete attention to him anymore. “What, you fuckers, are you too dumb to know when you’ve been conned? Pay attention to me!”

Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, Colin raised his silenced gun once again.

Unlike a toddler, his actions had deadly consequences.

The gun went off, blood exploding everywhere. The contents of someone’s body splattered against the glass walls. Everyone flinched backwards in shock. Arthur’s eyes partially shut against the onslaught of body matter. He felt something warm and heavy splat against his face and drip onto his shoulder. Hans moaned from his spot on the carpet, and Arthur heard something crash to the floor. He blinked away someone else’s blood from his lashes.

Ray had crashed sideways, falling into the corner of the room. Ray’s head was now partially missing his skull, the insides now staining the floor and frosted glass.

If Arthur hadn’t been so jaded he would’ve gagged. As it was, he felt as though he taking part in some kind of D-rated horror movie, complete with the slimy guts and pitiful villains.

Although shocked, the team all recognized it was time to take action, before another one of their bodies was the one staining the ground.

Emilia had been grossly underestimated. She shot out of her chair, completely free of her bonds - _fuck, that’s why she had been pointing at my Glock_ , Arthur thought - scooped up Arthur’s gun, and shot the man next to her in the torso. Without a suppressor, the Glock seemed to shatter the previous deadened sound contained in the meeting room.

Eva finally jolted awake, lucid enough to take in Arthur rocking forward, pushing off from the table behind him with his untied left hand. He tackled Colin into the side of the meeting room’s glass wall, his inertia carrying them both through one of the flimsy frosted panels. They crashed into the next room, glass flying all over. Arthur got his bearings first, immediately stomping on Colin’s wrist as he took in the plush lobby. Slamming down with the leg of his chair, Arthur sent the Sig skittering across the tile. Grabbing a piece of broken glass in one hand, Arthur awkwardly jumped for cover, the chair still strapped to his body. He sawed at the restraints, the glass cutting into his left hand in the process. Gunfire began taking chunks out of the marble corner beside Arthur, sending white pieces of rock flying. In what felt like ten years later, Arthur succeeded in freeing himself from his confines. He used the mirror in his pocket to see around the corner, and noticed – Colin, pointing his recovered gun at Arthur’s face.

“I NEED THE STOCK CODES!” Colin aimed his handgun at Arthur’s face, spittle flying from his lips, his face an unattractive shade of red.

Arthur opened his mouth to spew some bullshit, but Colin abruptly crashed into him, taken down from behind by a barely lucid Hans. Colin fired even as his arms hit the ground, a bullet speeding mere centimeters to the left of Arthur’s leg.

Hans knocked the weapon out of Colin’s hand, breaking his wrist against the marble tile. As Colin howled, Hans stated, “Ve haf seconds. The other man vas taken out by Emilia, but not vor long!”

“Got it,” Arthur took the handgun from Colin, and crashed back into the meeting room.

 _Someone must have heard the gunshots by now. Emergency services will be here soon._ Arthur mind raced as he swept into the room, noting Emilia training his Glock on a dazed Adam, Sandy still restrained. Eva was in the corner, looking shell-shocked. Arthur snatched the PASIV off the table, clicked it closed, and patted his breast pocket for his totem. In addition, he dragged the case of chemicals off the floor. _Ray doesn't need them now._ Arthur motioned to Emilia, holding his hand out for his Glock. She handed it over gladly, and Arthur promptly shot Adam in the leg. Arthur wasn’t a killer unless he had to be, but he wanted to make sure the remaining team’s exit went as smoothly as possible. “Good job with the ropes, but - get out of here,” Arthur told Emilia, ignoring the anguished cries of Adam. “Make a new identity. Fly to a different country. Just whatever you do, don’t stay behind.” Emilia nodded, already heading for the door.

“And you,” Arthur turned to Sandy, his tone changing entirely. “If I even get a hint that you’re in the same country as me by this time tomorrow,” at this Sandy’s eyes narrowed, “you’re dead.”

Arthur pivoted and stepped through the broken glass without a backward glance. Arthur was not a man to waste time. He was also not one for goodbyes.

Arthur again took out his mirror from his inside pocket. He had first seen the corner mirror trick with Cobb, back when he was naïve and would follow Cobb anywhere, and believed every job Cobb chose was reputable. Ever since the botched mission in Lagos that led to a particularly nasty scar running across Arthur’s thigh, Arthur always kept a pocket mirror on hand.

Aiming around the corner, the mirror’s reflection came back showing Hans and Colin - except the picture was all wrong – Hans was now the one pinned underneath.

In the split second it took Arthur to grasp the situation, Colin popped his head around of the corner, and screamed, “If you fire, I kill your friend!”

Arthur slid behind the lobby’s marble counter, adrenaline flooding his veins.

“You’re going to kill him anyway!” Arthur shouted back.

Late to the party, four armed men suddenly burst out of the stairwell behind Colin, double doors crashing into the walls on either side. Arthur fervently hoped to see Britain’s fine police force, but his hopes were futile. One of the armed men dragged Colin off of Hans, into the stairwell. Another fired a shot to the back of Hans’ head, effectively killing Arthur’s scheming to rescue the architect. _I hope Emilia already ran for the other exits._

Retreating farther behind the counter, Arthur took quick stock of the situation. Arthur’s Glock only held fifteen rounds, and he was five bullets down. That left ten bullets for four men, who seemed to have multiple magazines and were moving toward the meeting room, and him, fast. _Need a distraction._ Arthur’s gaze wandered, and landed on a viable solution.

Arthur lined up and shot in quick succession two bullets, aimed for the delicate chain of the opulent chandelier hanging above the lobby. Not sticking around to see if the men were impeded, Arthur tore out of his hiding place to the end of the hall, the deafening sound of breaking metal and glass reaching his ears.

With the PASIV and chemical case in one hand, and his Glock in the other, Arthur sprinted down the cream colored hallway. A few bullets tore by, narrowly missing him, and Arthur shot back across the hallway, hearing a grunt when one of his bullets found its mark. Six bullets left. Arthur reviewed the schematics of the building in his brain, remembering the proximity of the high-rise apartment complex next door. Making his decision, Arthur pounded up the stairwell at the end of his hallway, ascending instead of descending. Once up a few floors, Arthur immediately burst out of the doors, running into a conference room, slamming the thick wooden door behind him. He slipped his Glock into its holster, and threw open the clasps holding closed case of chemicals.

Arthur’s hands hovered, frantically scanning labels, hoping for two neatly branded flasks. _Oh, no. The labels are in Arabic._ Arthur grabbed two vials, leaving the rest of the case open on the table.  He bent down, untying his shoe and slipping the shoelace out of its position. Arthur tied the two tubes together using the shoelace, and sprinted back out of the room, turning, feeling the wound on his cheekbone reopening at the sudden change in motion.

 _Please let this be worth it – please let these flasks be hydrogen and chlorine,_ Arthur thought desperately.

He ran back over to the stairwell, pausing when he heard boots on the stairs below. Hiking the PASIV under his left arm, Arthur opened one of the wooden doors and heaved the two conjoined vials down the steps, and dived away, skidding across the floor

A _boom_ sounded beneath Arthur, and the temperature in the hallway rose noticeably, signaling the detonation of _something_ , at least.

Jumping up from his stomach, Arthur hung a left, now full out sprinting towards the dead-end of the hallway. _God, I hope the building schematics aren’t incorrect._

Hunching his shoulders and wrapping his body around the PASIV, Arthur didn’t stop running at the end of the hallway breaking through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass flew everywhere around him - for the second time that day. At this point, as Arthur free-fell through open air, he thought his only concern was the lack of a parachute - only to feel a sharp punch to the back of his left shoulder.

Arthur’s momentum was such that his body careened in a wide arc through the empty air. His hands grasped desperately above him, the PASIV abandoned as he grasped onto the ledge of the adjacent building's fire escape. Legs kicking, Arthur swung through the air. With a grunt, he hauled himself over the railing and onto the platform, crumpling in exhaustion to the metal floor. Arthur rolled onto his back slowly, feeling as though the front of his body was one giant bruise.

The only thing that propelled Arthur to his feet was a spreading numbness, then intense burning in his left shoulder. He was definitely wounded, meaning that the other shooters hadn’t been far behind at the time of his leap. Rolling to his feet and suppressing a moan, Arthur spotted a man in black peering out the shattered window. Lining up his Glock, arm trembling with exhaustion, Arthur shot the man in the torso. The man’s body pitched forward, tumbling to the ground four stories below.

They were in a side alley, noises from a two lane road echoing close by. Arthur jogged down the fire escape, cataloging white spots in his vision as the spreading numbness made its way throughout his left arm and upper torso. After making the painful descent off the ladder and onto the pavement, Arthur peeled off his suit jacket.

A dime-sized hole decorated the back of it, precisely the size of a bullet.

 _Oh no_ , Arthur thought, rather removedly. _I’ve been shot._

He was no stranger to bullet wounds, incurring several both in and out of the military. Arthur knew he was in a state of shock – adrenaline pumping, blood flowing. The wound was already hurting like a bitch, but it would soon incapacitate him if he didn’t get treatment.

Arthur picked up the PASIV, walking over to the man’s body on the ground, glancing around to make sure there were no security cameras lining the alley. He slipped off his suit jacket, grimacing at the blood, guts, and general unpleasantness staining its surface. He shoved his jacket under the dead man after taking out his belongings, removing the one from the body for himself. The hole in the front looked more like a tear than the bullet hole in his, and he didn’t think any cabbie would accept him in the state that other jacket was in.

Arthur glanced down at his shirt, sighing. At least he could cover most of the bloodstains and gore with his new found jacket, right? He still needed medical attention as soon as possible.

As he walked toward the entrance of the alley, Arthur pondered all of the tweaks he would have to do to the inevitable police investigation so he would (and the surviving team members, if there were any minus Sandy) make it out relatively unscathed. Another passport burned, for sure. Arthur figured it was too late to care about his fingerprints lining the inside of the building, not to mention all of the DNA evidence, and tried to remind himself to take care of the police report later, bullet wounds now.

He walked onto the sidewalk lining the street, gingerly slipping on his new found suit jacket. Both his shirt and the jacket were dark; people wouldn’t notice the injury unless paying him close scrutiny. As he walked, Arthur noticed a woman in a blue dress chatting animatedly to her female companion, suitably distracted. As they strolled by him, Arthur plucked her pink iPhone from the top of her purse. He avoided all places with surveillance – convenience stores, street corners and the like. Spotting a non-chain restaurant, Arthur stashed the PASIV into a hanging plant outside the door before entering. Arthur then ducked into this shop, the first shop he had seen without security cameras, a small café.

Once inside the dimly lit interior, Arthur cast the barista an apologetic sort of smile that came out more as a pained scowl. “Could I have a black coffee and directions to the toilets? Sorry, I don’t have long off break. Some odd thing going on at CurrencyCorp next door, a bomb evac.”

The barista looked up, and did a double take at the appearance of Arthur’s face. Arthur had almost forgotten about the laceration he had incurred, and dumbly realized he probably had quite the array of bruises by now.

“Sure, mate,” the barista said. “Not a problem. Not my business, but are you alright? Looking pretty bloody beat up there, in more ways than one.”

Arthur took in the barista, with his blonde hipster undercut, tortoiseshell glasses, and cheery tattoos, and decided a more dramatic scene was the way to secure his anonymity.

“Actually,” Arthur said, injecting a tremor into his voice. “Truth be told, I do work at CurrencyCorp, although I haven’t even made it to my desk yet, bomb call aside. My, ah, boyfriend and I had a bit of a row, and I’m -” here Arthur acted choked up, hanging his head. “I’m – I was trying to leave him, you know, for good this time. But – but he didn’t take kindly to that.” The barista’s eyes widened in pity and sympathy as Arthur’s narrative wore on, and Arthur felt a flash of guilt. He brushed it aside, going on, “I really, really don’t need my co-workers knowing about anything, so I was hoping to use your facilities to wash up a little. If, if that’s alright.” _Which it better be_ , Arthur added silently. He was starting to become dizzy from the pain emanating from the bullet wound.

“Yes, yes, that’s good. Let me – just let me get you some towels and such.” The barista came out from behind the counter, quickly going to the front window, flipping the sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’. “Come with me, mate.”

Arthur followed the man to the back of the store, flinching every time his shirt dug deeper into the wound on his back. The barista said something to Arthur about how the blows to his face looked pretty bad, and Arthur managed to form some phrases about how strong and large his boyfriend was. Arthur realized he was rambling on, and shut up as they reached the supply area.

The barista said something else, disappearing into the stock room. Arthur waited long enough that he started to get fidgety, contemplating booking it.

But just as he was preparing himself to leave the café, free flowing blood from the bullet wound aside, the barista, whose nametag read “Eddie”, strode back into the room, carry an armload of towels, ice packs, tweezers, rubbing alcohol, and anything else medical that Arthur could’ve dreamed of. This is the point where Eames would have remembered to say something snarky, like _‘preparing for the next Armageddon or something, sweetheart?’_ But Arthur could barely remember to mumble his thanks as he took the bundle, quickly rushing inside the stall, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him. He stripped off his jacket, took out the pocket mirror, and shucked off his tie. Arthur was glad he had left the vest only to the dream world for once. He surveyed himself in the mirror. His pale face stared back wanly, an angry purple-black bruise already marring the expanse of his left jaw and cheekbone. No wonder the barista had looked aghast at the sight of him.

 Arthur’s black hair was crusted with dark red on the side of where Ray had been butchered. His brown eyes looked duller than usual, less sharp. Drops of red crusted on Arthur’s neck, although this time it was his blood, presumably from one of the two times he had decided to propel himself through a pane of glass.

Arthur unbuttoned his shirt with one hand while typing in Eames’ number into the (luckily) unlocked pink iPhone with the other. He was desperate. Even Arthur would concede he needed help, badly.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, while Arthur eased his shirt off his left shoulder, cradling the phone with his right. “Fuck, Eames,” Arthur muttered. Hanging up, Arthur turned with his back facing the mirror, and took his pocket mirror off the edge of the sink to survey the damage.

The wound was clean cut, as bullet wounds went. Little tearing of the skin. But the bullet was still in the depths of his muscle, and hot blood was dripping steadily out. Arthur needed a resting place. He needed a safe house – and in that moment, he remembered that Eames had one in London. Eames had only mentioned it to Arthur once, definitely not one he visited often, but still – it was something.

Arthur stuffed the edge of the towel in his mouth, and poured rubbing alcohol into the edges of bullet hole, screaming into the fabric. After sweating for a few seconds, breathing hard, Arthur took his tie, cut it in two with scissors from the copious pile of supplies given to him by the barista, Eddie. He fashioned himself a binding on his shoulder, literally stuffing some of the tie into the bullet wound. Arthur used most of the roll of toilet paper to wrap the awkward dressing, and finally washed his hands, wiping down the bathroom. He shrugged his shirt back on with a frown, leaving more buttons open than even Eames would normally. Finally, Arthur wrapped his jacket back on, hiding the bulge caused by the hastily fashioned compression bandage.

Arthur splashed some water onto his face, trying to at least make it look as though he attempted cleaning off his bruises. He took off the iPhone off the sink, and cracked the case, taking out and destroying the battery. Wrapping the whole thing in a few paper towels, Arthur stuffed the evidence into the bottom of the trash can.

With one last look in the mirror to assure himself he could pretend to be human for another thirty minutes, Arthur left the bathroom.

Eddie was there at the counter, waiting with the coffee Arthur had no intentions of taking. As soon as Eddie saw Arthur, he shot him a tentative smile, as though Arthur was about to break. “How’re ya feeling?”

“Better,” Arthur said quietly, feeling the bullet wound already acting up. “But, if it’s all the same to you, I need to get back to work.”

Eddie smiled again, this time something a little sadder reaching the edges of his eyes. “I figured as much. Just – promise me you won’t go back to that wanker. And, take this; it’s a domestic abuse hotline number.” Arthur hesitated, then reached out his hand, closing his fingers around the paper.

“Thanks, Eddie. For everything.” Arthur gave him one last fleeting nod, and left the café.

Arthur felt his shoulder throb in time with his cheek as he strode down the street, keeping his head down. After grabbing the PASIV, he flagged down a taxi, making sure the company looked sketchy enough to be willing to be paid off. Arthur slid in, gave the address, and settled into his seat, wincing at every bump that jarred his shoulder. He realized he had crumpled the paper from Eddie into his hand, and smoothed out the note on his leg. Along with the domestic abuse hotline for the U.K., another phone number was scrawled, with a note written hastily at the bottom:

_Call me if you ever need someone to talk to, or a place to stay. You’re a very attractive man, and you deserve more than you have right now. You have a lot of courage leaving that asshole._

_All the best,_

_Eddie_

Arthur crumpled up the note, stuffing it into his pants pocket. _You deserve more than you have right now._

 _In another world,_ Arthur thought. In a pain-filled haze, Arthur's brain tried to think of leading a normal life, maybe with a steady boyfriend, _a barista is a normal, stable job._ But the second Eddie's smiling face popped into his mind, Arthur felt his stomach drop, a feeling like -  _guilt_.  _Cheating?_

He must have entered some sort of a trance, because the next thing Arthur knew, the cabbie had stopped and turned to look at him, saying, “You alright, sir? You look bleedin’ knackered, back there.”

“’m fine,” Arthur mumbled, alarmed at how difficult it was to form sentences. “Just… just lemme know when’re here.”

“We are ‘here’, mate. Middle of nowhere, outskirts of London, just the address you said.” Arthur looked around, and dimly noticed the city buildings in the distance.

“Oh. Here.” Arthur reached into the depths of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, relived to find that he had remembered to transfer all his currency. Sorting through the wad until he found the right type of money, Arthur paid the cabbie double the fare, muttering an unconvincing, “Keep this lift to yourself,” as he stumbled out of the seat.

The cabbie sped off relatively quickly; probably afraid Arthur would snap out of his impaired state and demand the money back.

Once the dust and dirt cleared, Arthur remembered the address he had given the driver – five miles south of Eames’ purported safe house. _Fuck_ , Arthur thought, barely lucid. _I need to start moving before I pass out._

The trek through the wooded area was a humongous blur. Although the job had originally begun early morning, the light seemed to rapidly fade as Arthur continued his clumsy trek through the woods. He tripped over sticks, leaves, and the occasional rock, cursing the fact that he couldn’t go to the hospital like a normal person. Every step seemed to jar each individual bruise in his body. Soon, Arthur was overcome, and had to sit down in a wet grassy clearing. The storm clouds had finally rolled in, and Arthur found he couldn’t muster the strength to care about the downpour soaking through his clothes. He was done. Finished.

 _We’re internationally wanted murders_ , Eames voice seemed to whisper in Arthur’s ear, taunting him. _You’re going to bail out on me now, darling? You’re so close._ Arthur stubbornly struggled to his feet, not stopping again, even as the sky opened and dumped down sheets of rain. Arthur knew that if he stopped now, he wouldn’t get up again.

In what seemed like another world, dusk had fallen. Arthur had reached the home. Shadows made the stereotypical English cottage look sinister. Arthur felt watched as his tired eyes took in the ivy slowly devouring the chimney, and heard unknown animals scampering in the bushes close by.

An ugly gnome sat at the front of the walk, and a glimmer of recognition passed across Arthur’s subconscious. Arthur slowly, painfully, disabled a trip wire at the edge of the gnome’s feet, reaching underneath for a gold key to the side door. Cradling his injured shoulder, waves of pain crashed over Arthur, inviting him to succumb to the darkness creeping into the edges of his vision.

Arthur stumbled up crumbling steps to the side door, leaning his tired frame against the peeling painted wood. Although Arthur fumbled with the key, his vision just couldn’t seem to focus enough to put the thing into the slot.

He was ready to give up and bleed out on the wet doorstep. Just as Arthur prepared himself to slide to his knees, the door in front of him gave way, his only support disappearing.

Arthur stumbled forward, the PASIV rolling to the floor as he staggered into what he thought was a wall - until he heard Eames' voice.

“What the bloody hell is - darling? Arthur?”

Arthur just managed to turn his pallid face into the direction of the noise, casting his sight upward. Arthur’s gaze registered the kaleidoscope that was Eames’ eyes, right before passing out into his solid chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!  
> I hope you all have enjoyed the story so far!  
> Please leave kudos, comments, and criticisms.  
> I would love motivation :D  
> More Eames coming up soon!  
> <3


	4. A Bloody Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finds some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this.  
> More Hurt/Comfort and a more lucid Arthur up next.  
> Leave kudos or a comment if you can!  
> <3

Arthur was lying on wet ground. His eyes lazily traced cracks in the white plaster ceiling, shifting to follow a moth flying in fluttering circles around and around a dirty lamp. His head, in addition to feeling as though it was stuffed with cotton, weighed a million pounds. His arms were limp at his sides, a throbbing ache emanating from his left hand. Vaguely, Arthur realized he could feel a cool breeze brushing across his chest, goose bumps pimpling over his skin. He attempted to raise his head to examine more, but promptly failed in the attempt.

Arthur must have made a noise of exasperation, because a mass of pink paisley consumed his vision and Eames’ face swam into focus above him. Arthur had never seen this particular emotion written across it – was that _concern_?

_Oh, that’s right. I’m at Eames’ safe house._

“Yes, Arthur, that’s correct.” Eames’ face scowled above him, inspecting and prodding the bruises and the open gash that marred his cheekbone. “To refresh your memory even further, darling, you also just fainted - into my arms. And I’m currently trying to figure out what the bloody hell happened to you,” Eames responded tersely, moving down Arthur’s torso, continuing to unbutton Arthur’s shirt. His suit jacket had been taken off, although Arthur didn’t recall the action.

Arthur became short of breath, a stab of panic knifing through him as he realized he didn’t have his totem. He didn’t know why he would be dreaming up all these injuries, but the fact that he had made it to Eames’ safe house – and Eames – seemed too improbable to be true.

Arthur dragged his left hand around frantically, smearing something warm and wet across the rough wood. Arthur was on the verge of a panic attack when Eames darted away from his side, snagging the suit jacket from a coat hook. Wordlessly, Eames crouched down, placing the jacket within easy reach. Arthur felt clumsily around, blood gushing from his hand. But, finally, he was able to locate the dice, barely comprehending Eames' voice in the background saying _breathe, Arthur, breathe._

At the sight of the twin threes, Arthur turned his head skyward, relieved. Eames guided Arthur's scarlet hand over the blood-soaked floor, and gently closed his fingers around the dice. Eames then helped him slip the totem into Arthur’s pants pocket, all without taking or touching the blood-smeared totem.

With the jolt of adrenaline still in his system, Arthur noticed more goose bumps rising on his exposed upper chest, where the shirt had already been partially opened.

_My shirt’s being unbuttoned. That’s where the breeze was coming from._

“Arthur, if you weren’t half conscious at the moment, I would be mocking you for stating the obvious. As it stands, please do shut up. Unless you’re willing to tell me exactly what parts of your body are bleeding out, because I’m trying to preserve my welcome mat over here.” Eames had apparently given up with the tiny buttons on Arthur’s button-down. He instead was reaching into his shorts, where he procured a large Swiss army knife.

“I didn’t mean to say those things out loud,” Arthur said self-consciously, wincing as Eames slid the sliced-open shirt out from under him.

Arthur tried to move his upper body to sit up. Eames immediately pressed a restraining hand against Arthur’s sternum, halting any further movement. Arthur’s breath rushed out in a _whoosh_ , the pressure pushing his poor blood-drenched tie further into the bullet wound.

Arthur’s vision wavered, the ceiling going fuzzy around him. He saw dark spots, obscuring the moth’s progress around the dingy light.

Blinking, Arthur flinched back from the pain into the hard floor. His breath came back in jagged gasps, his ribs aching. Eames’ unfocused face loomed centimeters away. “ _Arthur_. Darling. Arthur!” Eames tried to get his attention.

“Wwwwhat?” Arthur slurred, confused at Eames’ urgency. Once in focus, Arthur noticed Eames’ face had a solemn cast, as though he was preparing Arthur’s eulogy.

“I need to know where the bloody hell you are hurt. Now,” Eames said flatly. His voice had taken on a different sort of firmness. Arthur was immediately reminded of an officer demanding information from a soldier. His subconscious immediately latched onto this, snapping to attention. He noted Eames’ eyes glinting in the yellow light, finding something slightly tremulous in the other man’s gaze.

“Laceration on my face. Bruising. Both sides.” Arthur took a shallow breath, noticing the pain it caused. “My ribs are damaged from impact with glass. Rope burns on wrist. Pretty sure there’s still glass in my left hand. Eames, I need stitches.” Eames was paying close attention as Arthur listed the injuries, immediately flipping Arthur’s bleeding palm towards him at the mention of stitches. Eames tore off his own shirt ungracefully, revealing a rather tan chest. He tied the pink fabric around Arthur’s hand, Arthur muttering, “The only good use for that rag.” Belatedly, a thought occurred to Arthur.  “Oh. I forgot. A bullet wound. Left shoulder. Still embedded, I think,” Arthur added, an afterthought.

Eames stared at Arthur for a moment, radiating disbelief. “And you didn’t think to mention that first? Rather important, wouldn’t you say?”

Eames didn’t wait for a response, dropping Arthur’s wrapped hand, taking Arthur’s right side in his grip. Before Arthur could understand what he was doing, Eames slipped his arms under Arthur’s body, one under the crook of his knees and the other centimeters below the entrance wound of the bullet. Arthur left a puddle of diluted blood and water behind as Eames lifted him off the wood.

 Arthur himself let out a noise of protest, mumbling complaints as he was hauled off the ground - _like some damsel in distress_ , Arthur thought hazily.

“I’m about to ruin my kitchen tablecloth for you,” Eames griped, maneuvering through the entryway into a small living room. Arthur heard the _drip, drip_ of his blood along the carpeted floor, unconsciously noting the feminine wallpaper and the blue china collection as they made their way into the kitchen.

They must have been quite the picture, Eames the shirtless seraph, and Arthur, a bruised and bloodied human.

 

***

 

Arthur must have drifted off again, because the next thing he knew, Eames was repeating something, once again looming over Arthur’s face. A bright kitchen light shone above him, illuminating Eames’ head in some kind of halo. _He’s like an angel_ , Arthur thought blearily.

Eames prodded Arthur, his brain slowly becoming conscious. “Arthur, I need you to stop talking about soddin’ cherubs and let me flip you over. Brace yourself with your hands, alright? I don’t want you to slam down.”

“Okay,” Arthur croaked, his mouth as dry as a desert.

Eames, still shirtless, laid his large hands on either side of Arthur’s torso, manhandling him onto to his side. Eames’ palms felt like burning irons on Arthur’s skin. Arthur became aware of how cold he was, shivers radiating through him.

 Arthur said as much to Eames as he was pushed onto his stomach, barely able to slow his descent onto the checkered tablecloth. “That’s because of the blood loss, Arthur,” Eames said in response. “Sit tight for a moment.” Eames, out of Arthur’s range of sight, shuffled around before returning with a white dishtowel, which he shoved under Arthur’s chin. Arthur’s eyes focused on the embroidered daisies on its surface, his brows crinkling in confusion.

“Eames?” Arthur called weakly from the table; his arms curling loosely around the edges of the cloth. His hand throbbed within the sacrificed shirt, no doubt still saturating it with blood.

“What, darling?” Eames’ voice called from behind him, his steps quickening over the linoleum of the floor.

“Why – why does your dishtowel have flowers on it?”

Eames steps faltered. He dumped the first aid supplies onto the counter in front of Arthur.

“Because they’re my mum’s,” Eames responding gruffly, turning to the sink to wash his hands, his back to Arthur. Eames was again clothed, an old maroon sweatshirt advertising the stiff set of his shoulders. “We’ll talk about whatever you want later. But right now, let’s focus on the fact that you got shot,” Eames said shortly, turning back toward Arthur’s prone form.

Eames leaned over Arthur, the fabric of his sweatshirt brushing Arthur’s side. “Is this toilet paper?” Eames tore off the outer wrappings of the bandage. Arthur elected not to answer, instead bracing himself for the inevitable agony of the tie removal. Eames let out a low whistle after the last of the toilet paper. “Arthur – is that your tie stuffed in the bullet wound?”

 “Café… not a multitude… bandages…” is what came out of Arthur’s mouth, although he meant to say, “I was in a café, there weren’t exactly a multitude of bandages at my disposal.” He was having some trouble breathing on his stomach, and was wishing Eames would hurry up – or at least fucking finish him off, already.

“Never mind, love, save your breath.” Eames shifted even farther over Arthur, his hot hands cataloging the span of Arthur’s back. “This tie’s coming out on three, yeah?”

Arthur nodded, clamping down on the towel with his teeth.

 “Alright. One-” Eames, the bastard, yanked the tie out prematurely, and poured the contents of a hidden bottle of what Arthur suspected to be alcohol - onto the open wound. It felt as though shards of glass had been jabbed under Arthur’s skin, the fluid thrashing his insides like liquid fire. Arthur let out an uncontrollable yell, opening his mouth despite the dishtowel between his teeth.

It took Arthur a minute or two to compose himself, in which time Eames washed his back with yet another towel, warm water sluicing god-knows-what off of Arthur’s skin. “Sorry about the vodka, mate. Last thing I need is an infection on my hands, you’re loony enough at the moment.”  Eames plopped the wet towel on the table. “So I can either take the bullet out now, or put on a compression bandage and wait. It would be safer to wait, honestly, but if I do you might not have full use of that shoulder anytime soon.”

“Take it out,” Arthur replied automatically. _Nothing could be worse than the vodka._

As it turned out, Arthur was wrong. As soon as Eames probed the entrance with the sterilized prongs, Arthur passed out, again. He woke up to Eames maneuvering his form into a sitting position, wrapping the finishing touches on the bandage. For once, Eames had been efficient, quickly stitching the wound.

“I need to look at your hand now, darling,” Eames said quietly. His warm torso curled around the back of Arthur, preventing him from diving head-first off the back of the table.

As Eames stitched Arthur’s hand with black thread, Arthur’s mind wandered. He gazed out the small kitchen window above the sink, tracing the faint glint of Orion’s Belt with his eyes. _The stars are beautiful tonight._

Arthur didn’t notice Eames wrapping his chest until suddenly he could actually breathe. “Bruised ribs,” Eames declared, feeling around. He rubbed some kind of stinging salve on the rope burns that circled Arthur’s wrists. Finally, Eames came in front of Arthur to gingerly cradle his shoulders in each of his warm hands. Eames’ multi-colored eyes met Arthur’s own for a brief second, a frown tugging at his lips. “I don’t think that cut on your face needs stitches, although it looks bloody painful. I cleaned it out while you were unconscious.”

Eames broke his eye contact with Arthur, looked around at the kitchen, and sighed. Arthur belatedly followed his sweeping gaze.

The moon’s rays shining through kitchen window illuminated the various bloody towels strewn across the floor, a ruined paisley shirt, some bits of thread, bandages, and an abandoned vodka bottle piled in a corner. Arthur’s trail of blood had long since dried across the tiles, marking a stained path in the living room.

“At least you’re not dead.” Eames said at last. “I was worried about my welcome mat for a moment there.”

Arthur didn’t even think to respond. The only thought flitting across Arthur’s mind at the moment was how _warm_ Eames’ chest seemed to be, his head rocking forward, falling into the maroon sweatshirt.

“Time for bed,” said Eames. He rocked Arthur off the kitchen table onto the tile, one hand on the small of his back, the other slinging Arthur's arm across his shoulders.

Arthur really tried, but his legs just couldn’t seem to stay upright, even with Eames holding most of the burden. “Let’s go,” Eames said, and, without consulting Arthur, swept behind Arthur’s knees, knocking him off his feet.

Eames carried Arthur like that through the house, Arthur uncomplaining, his exhaustion rendering him a docile passenger. Eames made his way up narrow wooden steps and down a dark hall, the ceiling swirling and rolling under Arthur’s gaze.

Eames turned, coming to a stop in a quiet bedroom. He laid Arthur on top of a white checkered quilt, his gaze sweeping over Arthur from head to toe.

Arthur felt absolutely naked. He was swathed in bandages, every part of him aching something fierce. Turning his head self-consciously, Arthur noticed a window shining in the corner of the room. Once again, he spotted Orion's Belt, further along in the cloudy sky.

 "The stars are beautiful tonight, Eames."

"I know, darling," Eames said softly. "I know." 

 

 


	5. Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wakes up. Again.  
> At least this time he got to sleep under Eames' mother's quilt.  
> Wait, what?

When Arthur woke up, he felt as though he had slept for a million years. Everything around him felt surreal, heavy. His limbs felt coated in sticky syrup, stuck in place. His mind was slow, sluggish.

When Arthur finally motivated himself to open his eyes, they opened to darkness. Not recognizing the ceiling, or the weight of the blankets on top of him, panic began to skate across the surface of his mind. Arthur’s breath quickened, although he was quick to control the noise. An ache began to develop deep in his chest. _Where am I?_

Arthur snapped his head to the side, and immediately had to shut his eyes against the onslaught of pain that greeted him. Dizzying waves of agony crashed over his left side. Arthur’s instinctive response was to clench his fists, but both of his hands protested from the movement.

In his left palm, Arthur felt the telltale prickle of freshly done sutures. Feeling the raised thread, Arthur concluded the crosses were too wide to be his usual modus operandi, but too methodical to be done by himself in his current state. _So… I have a friend somewhere._

The pain finally lessening, Arthur again cautiously opened his eyes, blinking owlishly as his gaze adjusted to the darkness around him. Still with his head turned, Arthur saw a light colored wall. Moonlight streaked in faint segmented rays across the wooden flooring. Following the lighted path, Arthur’s perusal of the room ended in the darkened corner across from his aching head.

 With a twitch of surprise, Arthur realized he wasn’t alone. Somehow, some way, Arthur hadn’t noticed the plaid armchair in the shadows, a figure resting in its depths. The chair was perfectly situated to face the open doorway on the opposite side of Arthur.

The person was slumped over, supported by a wing of the armchair. Their head was resting on their shoulder, and their thick arms were crossed over their chest. Arthur followed the curve of the silhouette, the broad shoulders, the jawline, and let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. It was Eames. He was at Eames’. Eames had stitched his hand. He was okay. _I am okay._

Comforted by this information, Arthur was again lulled to sleep by the sound of Eames' heavy breathing.

 

***

 

Arthur’s mouth tasted like a sewer.  

It was his first thought upon waking.

The second being whoever had forgotten to shut the goddamn curtains better run, because Arthur was prepared to commit 1st degree murder. Anything to stop the light currently beating down upon his eyelids.

Groaning, Arthur opened his eyes. He tried to move further up the bed, but found his both of his hands restricted, one below and one above the blankets.

“Oh, you finally decided to join the land of the living, darling?”

Arthur stopped in his motions, gradually turning towards Eames’ voice.

Eames was leaning forward in the armchair, his bare forearms resting on his knees. He had traded his maroon pullover for a blue and brown striped button down, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Eames hadn’t lined up the buttons correctly upon fastening the shirt, one side of the collar raised slightly higher than the other. His brown slacks bore dark stains, conspicuously matching the color of dried blood. His normally slicked back hair was mussed, brown strands lying astray - as though Eames had repeatedly run his hand through the fibers. Exhaustion shone through his confident smirk, the beginnings of purple bruises of sleep deprivation forming under his eyes.

“Mr. Eames, you look like shit,” Arthur croaked, immediately entering a coughing fit upon uttering the phrase.

Eames rose from his position in the chair, striding over to the bedside table. He lifted a glass previously unnoticed by Arthur off the surface, leaving a ring of condensation in its wake.

He moved closer to Arthur’s position on the pillow, lowering the glass until it rested near to his mouth. Between coughs, Arthur wrinkled his nose at the straw presented to him. At Eames’ long-suffering sigh, Arthur fumbled until he caught the straw between his parched lips. He greedily sucked at the liquid being offered to him, inhaling huge gulps of water until Eames took the glass away. “Slow down Arthur. England is not suffering from a drought.”

Gasping a lungful of air after he downed the rest of the water, Arthur slumped further back into the pillow. _I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was._

Eames arched an eyebrow at Arthur, placing the drink back onto the table. “And you’re saying _I_ look like shite. Dear Arthur, I encourage you to take a look around and reformulate your opinion.”

Arthur opened his mouth, prepared to shoot back a response, but decided against it as he took in his surroundings.

Sometime in the night ( _Or day_ , Arthur thought, he really had no idea how long he’d been asleep), Eames had changed the bandages encircling his midsection, leaving yet another pile of bloodied dressings heaped near the door. Ice packs and other assorted medical equipment lay scattered at the foot of his bed. Arthur felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck as he observed the huge mound of quilts piled on top of him.

“You had a fever,” Eames said, following his line of sight. “Wasn’t sure if it was going to turn into anything, although luckily it broke on Sunday.”

“On Sunday?” Arthur questioned, feeling a rising sense of unease. “How long have I been here, exactly?”

“Well, it’s,” Eames checked a clock on the opposite wall, “Seven a.m. now,” Eames made a big show of holding out his hands, spreading his fingers. “So I’d say about three weeks, give or take a few days.”

“ _What_?” Arthur exclaimed, scrambling for a higher position in the bed. “Three weeks?!”

Eames broke out into a lopsided smirk, waving his hands in a ‘calm down’ gesture. “You’re so easy to get riled up, darling. Settle down. I was just joking. You stumbled over my doorstep Friday night, and it’s Tuesday morning. So five days, four nights, really. You’ve developed quite the bedhead, love.”

 Arthur already felt a headache forming on top of his other injuries. He was not ready to deal with Eames’ humor, or any humor, for that matter. It was hard just to distinguish English from the throbbing of his other injuries. Which, now that Arthur thought about it, felt less like he had been shot and more like he had just taken a particularly bad spill off his bike.

“Eames,” Arthur began, shifting as Eames guided him into more of a sitting position, piling pillows behind him with one hand while pushing him up with the other. “Did you give me narcotics?” Arthur asked, ignoring the fact Eames was manhandling him like some helpless kitten.

“I hate to startle you, darling,” Eames began, “but you might want to look over your shoulder. Slowly, now.” Arthur, brow furrowed, looked over to his left side. Upon seeing nothing, and at Eames’ head tilt, he glanced toward his right side. Arthur’s gaze screeched to a halt at his right arm. With his palm facing up, an IV line had been haphazardly taped to his wrist. When Arthur traced the line back to the source, he noticed the IV pole with two hanging bags. Well, to be accurate, a coat rack that seemed to be doing a bang-up job. In addition to the first bag with fluid (that Arthur assumed to be morphine), he saw a partially empty bag, the bottom filled with, wait – “Blood, darling. Had to give you a blood transfusion after your little puddles all over my floor,” Eames remarked, casually, like he had lent Arthur the Sunday paper.

“You remembered my blood type?” Arthur questioned, vaguely shocked that Eames not only had a morphine drip (which wasn’t too surprising in itself, Eames could’ve been a drug dealer in another life), but also knew how to administer blood transfusions – with his own blood.

“Of course. It’s A positive, compatible with my humble A negative. I remembered the one time you told me, because A positive makes sense, seeing as how you need to be perfect in all aspects.” Eames smiled, some of the easy humor returning to his face. “Now that’s all squared away, how are you feeling?”

Arthur shifted under the covers, glad when Eames reached over to pull down some of the suffocating blankets. He was achy, sure, and sudden movements were not his friend at the moment, but Arthur felt much better, all things considered. “Uh,” Arthur said eloquently. “Like I jumped out of a five story window, onto a fire escape, with a bullet wound.”

“Is it time for a story, darling?” Eames asked, raising one eyebrow. He scooted his chair closer to Arthur’s bedside, giving him another sip of the water. Leaning back into the worn lounger, Eames once again crossed his arms over his chest. He eyed Arthur critically, a scientist with a specimen. Arthur tried in vain to stop blinking so much, resisting the urge to close his heavy eyelids entirely. “I need at least a SparkNotes version, love. I’d rather not have the Italian mafia or whomever you fell in with knocking down the door to my mother’s house.”

“You’re mother’s house?” Arthur questioned. Suddenly, he was wide awake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this chapter is a little short. Life is drowning me atm.  
> Comments, kudos, criticisms all appreciated.  
> I have some first hand knowledge when it comes to medicine, but let me know if there are any glaring errors.  
> <3


	6. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur explains to Eames the disaster that was the CurrencyCorp job, and Eames makes a plan of his own (of course, not without sustaining protest from Arthur).

“Yes, my mum’s house, Arthur,” Eames replied to Arthur's shocked statement, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you think I would own a carpet and drapes like these? I might not have the same fashion sense as you, love, but I don’t recall painting tiny yellow flowers on every available surface in your presence.”

Arthur looked around at the room they were currently occupying, and took in his surroundings for the first time in daylight. The pale blue walls Arthur had noticed before had tiny blades of grass hand painted above the base molding, little yellow daises sprinkled about cheerfully. The drapes that ( _damn it_ ) weren’t their supposed job of blocking out the sun billowed about, white fluffy clouds in the light breeze.

“It’s good to switch things up, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said belatedly, trying to hide his displeasure at again failing to adequately notice his surroundings.

Eames raised an incredulous eyebrow, his uneven collar scrunching up even further as he tilted his head to one side. “Hold on one second, I need to write that down. _Arthur_ telling _me_ to ‘switch things up’ – I think it’s time for me to dial down the morphine.”

Arthur sighed, inwardly cringing at the idea of experiencing any more pain. He didn’t even have his clothes on anymore, just his underwear. _Great, Eames undressed me while I was sleeping._ A man was not very intimidating to another after being seen in only his boxer briefs, mortal wounds aside.

 “Eames?” Arthur said, ready to change the subject. Something had occurred to him that he couldn’t ignore, something that had been lost in flashes of pain and blood and exhaustion. “Do you have my totem?” He knew Eames wouldn’t ignore the request, and Arthur really wanted a second to think. Alone. Eames swept his gaze around the room, his face turning down into a half frown. Arthur offhandedly noticed the stubble darkening Eames’ jaw, a forgotten remnant of the past few nights sleeping by Arthur’s side.

“I need to find your suit jacket, darling.” Here Eames rose swiftly from the chair, only pausing to fix Arthur with a fierce warning stare. “No. Moving. I will be _right_ back.” Arthur nodded meekly, sure that a ten year old Girl Scout could beat him in a fight at the moment, although he would never admit it.

Eames disappeared out of the cheerful bedroom, his footsteps quick across the squeaky wooden floorboards. Closing his eyes, Arthur took this brief moment alone to think – not that thinking was unusual for him. But after being out four, maybe even five days, he was feeling pretty discombobulated, disconnected. The last few days seemed like oil poured on water – muddling and distorting the already murky events of the past month.

The trials of the past month flashed through Arthur’s head disjointedly, a rapid succession of color and memories. _The slip of the needle into Arthur’s veins, rickety lawn chairs, Ray’s smiling face, Hans telling Ray jokes in German, their teeth bright in the dim light of a seedy bar, the limp handshake of Sandy, Arthur’s first day casing the bank, the receptionist lighting up in his presence, Arthur’s work spread out across a cheap hotel coffee table, lit up by the glow of a late night British talk show, Emilia’s face scrunched up in front of a dirty mirror, practicing the pinched expression of Colin Jansen… late night tea gone cold, an insightful talk with Hans at 4am, cold pizza, warm beer, sketches, plans, exhaustion, more sketches…_

Arthur’s thoughts took a turn… _The uneasy feeling Arthur felt upon entering the dreamscape, the imposing bank that held Eva’s secrets, the projections that eventually turned on them, Hans’ pleading face down the hallway, and then now in the hotel, helpless on the ground, the head shot in the dream world, the head shot in real life, blood everywhere, congealing, changing the scent in the air – Hans morphed into Ray, fragments of his beautiful mind staining cheap glass walls… Rope burns chaffing at Arthur’s wrists, his Glock out of reach, Emilia’s pleading stare, Sandy’s despondent gaze, the way her eyes never seemed to look you dead on, Eva Jansen’s terror stricken face in the dreamscape, the way the Glock felt hot after firing, the masked men barging out of the stairwell, Colin dragged away, the running, running, heart beating, palpitating, tubes thrown, bomb going off, rug burns, not gonna make it, not gonna make it, glass breaking! Fire erupting from his left side, the impact of cold metal in open air… where was the shooter,_ so much pain! _\- he’s gonna kill me, Oh God, Oh God Eames…_

“Arthur?” Arthur’s eyes shot open, fists clenched, hair sticking to his scalp in the presence of a cold sweat. “Darling…” Eames was leaning over Arthur’s bedside, crouching down by his left side. Once again, in a sudden instance of déjà vu, Arthur felt Eames take his left palm, carefully unclenching his white-knuckled hold with his steady grip.

Eames kept Arthur’s hand spread out, palm open, even with the shaking Arthur’s hand was doing. Careful to avoid the stitches, Arthur’s left hand was guided by Eames’ large, steady grasp. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I was so bloody dumb, I forgot, in the heat of the moment a couple days ago…” Eames’ sure grip led Arthur to his discarded pants, held tight in Eames’ other hand. Guided down into one of the slim pockets, Arthur’s trembling fingers closed around his dice, rolling them clumsily on top of the lumpy covers.

Arthur’s breathing slowed at the six dots facing up at him. Feeling the indentations brush his stitches, Arthur’s side twinged in protest as he placed the totem on the bedside table across from him.

Eames eyed him worriedly, hovering, not yet sitting back into his armchair. “We can do the story another time, Arthur. It would be better if you rested.”

But Arthur knew that just because his world had momentarily stopped, the world outside of this house hadn’t. Arthur had to get things going his way before the job got even more messed up – _well, more than it was before_ , Arthur thought bitterly.

“No,” Arthur said, stifling a yawn. “At least I can explain to you the overview.” And then he did. Between bouts of sipping from the glass (which Eames refilled twice) under the strict direction of Eames to _drink slowly, darling,_ to swallowing complaints as Eames periodically fumbled with one IV line or the other, or to check on Arthur’s bandages (“I’m fine, Eames”), even between an embarrassing trip to the bathroom (that he would rather forget), Arthur managed to retell the whole tale. He talked about Emilia, and her less-than-perfect forgery (to which Eames snorted and made a comment befitting of his extremely large ego), about Ray, and his inability (or, most likely, refusal) to speak English, to Hans and his scary projections, yet teddy bear demeanor, and finally to Sandy.

“You’re telling me you worked with a serial killer? A real life, Jack the Ripper, killer?” Eames stopped Arthur mid-sentence, unwilling to believe him.

“We didn’t know at the time,” Arthur replied, feeling defensive. “Everyone has gotten rumors levied at them at some point in their career, Eames, as you recall by that time most of continental Australia believed you were a British agent masquerading as a stripper.”

Eames flushed, looking suddenly unbalanced. “I didn’t know you had heard about that story, Arthur.”

Arthur smirked. “I was the one who made that story, Mr. Eames,” at Eames’ betrayed expression, “I did it just to save your ass,” Arthur continued innocently. He winced at the strain that smiling put on his healing face, but continued, “So, to sum it up, the team is dead, except for the extractor, Sandy. Well, and Emilia may have survived. I’m not dismissing any chance after seeing her break out of her bonds like that. Bad to underestimate. Colin Jansen is mentally unstable and very much alive, and will probably be after me sometime soon, if he hasn’t already begun his search. I assume he captured Sandy, but I can’t be sure.” Arthur motioned for the glass of water, and after taking a sip (aided by Eames, although Arthur would like to forget that part), said, “And now I need to get back to the crime scene, because my fingerprints are all over and I really don’t need one of my few identities in the U.K. compromised.”

“Woah, woah, woah, darling,” Eames said, shaking his head. “You aren’t even standing at the moment, and you’re telling me you want to go back to a crime scene? In which you are implicated in, don’t forget?”

“But,” Arthur began, affronted, “my condition aside, there’s too much to be left unattended, I need to figure out who Colin is working with, and-”

“I wasn’t done darling,” Eames cut in. “You’re not going anywhere, but I’m fine travelling and helping you out. Besides,” Eames said, flashing Arthur his trademark smirk, “I’ve already invested too much time being your nursemaid to let you die at the hands of some second-rate hypnotist.”

Arthur stared at Eames, at a loss for words. Eames had no obligation to help Arthur, no obligation to let Arthur stay at his house in the first place, really. Eames had been nothing but helpful to Arthur, even donating some of his _blood_ , not to mention the probable difficult-to-obtain illegal morphine making its way through Arthur’s body at the moment…

Yet here Eames was, looking as though he hadn’t slept in the entirety that Arthur had been occupying his mother’s home, looking as though his only priority had been to look after Arthur in his pitiful state.

“But – but what about your mother?” Arthur found himself asking, too stunned to voice any of his musings.

“What about her?” Eames questioned back, clearly thrown for a loop.

“Seeing as how this is her property, where is she?” Arthur was suddenly struck with a sobering thought. “Is she alive Mr. Eames?”

“Of course she’s alive, Arthur, my darling mother refuses to release her grip on life, in order to continually stay a pain in my arse. She’s just on holiday at the moment, in Italy, I believe.” Eames looked at Arthur, once again giving him an once-over. “You won’t have to worry about her while I’m gone; she’s not due back to England until next month. My mum is trying to savor as much warmth as Italy’s beaches can offer, so she won’t die only knowing the weak rays of England. I tried to get her to visit Mombasa with me, but she said it was too ‘lawless’ for her tastes, it’s like she forgets who her bloody _son_ is…

“But, I digress, that’s not the main problem, right now,” Eames continued, once again making uncomfortably intense eye-contact with Arthur. “The problem, dear Arthur, is the fact that I wouldn’t be content leaving you alone for an hour, much less the several days, even weeks, it’s going to take for me to untangle the mess that is your snookered job.”

“Mr. Eames, I’m flattered by your concern, but I’m perfectly capable-”

“Under normal circumstances to take care of yourself, I know, darling.” Eames finished preemptively, ignoring Arthur’s glare. “But I doubt you could stand up, Arthur, much less function as a human being.” Eames put a hand up, effectively stopping Arthur from interjecting. “Which is nothing to be ashamed of, you got bloody _shot_. Most people wouldn’t be conscious at the moment, much less holding intelligent conversation.

“So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stick around for a few more days, make some calls, stop some of Britain’s finest in their searches for a day or two, just to give us both some slack. And if you’re fine after those few days, I’ll leave you the full run of the things, while I’m off looking for your remaining team members and tying off loose ends.” Eames leaned back in the lounger once again, apparently satisfied.

Arthur, for his part, had sunk even further into the pillows during the course of Eames’ spiel, unsure of how the debate between him going back into London ended with the plan of Eames going a few days in his stead. “Well,” Arthur began, silently cursing the fact that Eames’ plan was so logical, so smart, that he really couldn’t debate it reasonably. “Fine.” Arthur finished, and, like a skulking child, avoided eye contact, pouting towards the ceiling. “But I want to be kept in the loop during the whole thing. Phone calls, diagrams, visits, the whole thing.”

“Always have to be point man, don’t you love?” Eames said good-naturedly, although there was an undertone of something deeper in his voice. Unsure how to respond to that statement, Arthur nodded once, stiffly, flinching at the way the movement pulled at the bandages surrounding his bullet wound.

They studied each other.

“Of course, Arthur, you can be my point man.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying how the plot is progressing. Eames' mother's dramatic appearance is drawing even closer, I can promise you that. Anyone remember Eddie, by any chance? His cameo isn't over yet. ;) #jealousEamesisjealous
> 
> I just want to take a moment to thank every single one of you lovely souls who has left hits, kudos, or comments. I truly wouldn't have been able to keep writing without all of your lovely support! 
> 
> I'd like to thank Wolfreader98, barush, bakashia, mlp_buttons, theyneverhaveanextractionplan, Sunglow66, SilverUkiss, LadyKrose, peabodythecat, justasillygoose, hoveringcat9, and OrangeBug13 in particular for leaving comments. Their encouragements are truly the lifeblood of this work and I always welcome new comments, criticisms, and reviews!!
> 
> You guys are the best  
> <3


	7. Just Call Me Bond, James Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames receives a call.
> 
> Arthur drowns in his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This update was really supposed to be longer, but I split this installment into two chapters. The length was getting ridiculous.
> 
> I know, I know, what's wrong with a long chapter? But at least the next update will come relatively quickly. I think an Eames POV chapter might happen in this story, we'll see. And the mum chapter is edging ever closer. : )
> 
> Happy reading, and as always, comments and kudos are appreciated!
> 
> <3

The day that Arthur was able to make it downstairs (with Eames’ help, begrudgingly), Eames sat him down. He then made his way over to sit on the adjacent couch. Eames was palming what looked to be about five different cell phones, and his eyes were serious as he met Arthur’s gaze. _Here it comes_ , Arthur thought. _The moment where he tells me to leave._

“I’m prepared to stage a major operation on these bastards. Mostly for the sweet, sweet revenge, Arthur, but also because your death would be a major strain on my future point man prospects.” Eames shifted forward on the white sofa, causing Arthur to wince when he noticed the dried blood stain on the arm to his side. _Must have dripped on the couch on the night of the shooting. Onto the white couch._ _Ouch._ “That being said, darling, I have no clue what I’m getting into. I know you gave me an overview of the situation, but it was marred by the fact that you were slurring like a drunken bloke at some trashy pub in North Hampton.”

Arthur let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Eames wasn’t kicking his immobile ass out. He was just doing what he did best – getting into character.

“Well,” Arthur began, shifting uncomfortably on the loveseat. He was sans IVs now, two days into their ‘rest week’, but his ribs still ached with every movement. The stitches on his hand felt tight. His face was slowly healing, although Arthur was nervous enough that he had been able to avoid any reflective surfaces. The major annoyance to Arthur was the bullet wound, which kept him from doing, well, anything. He was grounded, stationary. Sighing at the thought, Arthur began his story. The faster he filled in Eames, the faster they could execute their plan.

“After the events of Fischer’s inception, I wanted to continue working, stay in a routine,” Arthur said.

Eames snorted. “Of course you did, dear Arthur.” At Arthur’s glare, he mimed zipping his mouth and throwing the key over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur continued. “But I didn’t want to expose anyone in the team to unnecessary risks, and I knew everyone was far away and preoccupied -”

“Preoccupied?” Eames sputtered, his voice shooting up an extra octave. “Do I look busy? Bloody hell, _far away_? I was in the same _city_ as the location of your incident!”

“Can I tell you about the job, Mr. Eames, or would you rather continue to delight in listening to the sound of your own voice?” Along the return of his mental strength, Arthur’s acerbic wit seemed to have resurfaced as well.

Eames made a motion with his hand, as though Arthur was the one who had interrupted him, urging him to go on.

“As I was saying, I was trying to prevent unnecessary risks to the team.” At Eames’ pouting glance, Arthur added, “Yes, _I know_ , Mr. Eames, it could have gone better.

“An understatement. That being said, the job seemed like an ordinary, routine extraction. We were to extract stock codes for a portfolio from a banker at CurrencyCorp, Eva Jansen. Her son, who we now know to be the slightly psychotic Colin, paid us. The team was made up of myself, Hans, the architect, Ray, the chemist, Emilia, our forger – yes, I know Eames, she wasn’t as good as you, stop giving me that look – and Sandy, our extractor, who conveniently omitted the fact that she had, ah, committed serial murders a few years back. One of these murders happened to be Colin’s friend.”

“But I don’t understand,” Eames said, when Arthur paused to take a breath. He dumped the pile of cell phones on the plush cushion next to him, and scratched his shoulder, eyebrows drawing together. “What does a serial killer have to do with a hypnotist? And why did this Colin git hire you if he wanted to kill your extractor? A hit isn’t that costly nowadays, with the glory of the dark web and such. Why involve other people, especially people that have experience in dealing with violence?”

“Colin Jansen is not in the right state of mind, Eames. He was literally frothing at the mouth while trying to interrogate us, some revenge plot over ‘the elitist of the dreamsharing community’ or some asinine reasoning like that,” Arthur said, picking at the bandages peeking out of the v-neck of his olive green shirt. He was uncomfortable with madness. It was irrational, unpredictable, everything that Arthur hated.

“'Interrogate you'?” Eames questioned, his eyes glinted with something dark and hard, his fist clenching on his thigh.

Arthur made a dismissive gesture, although its effects were slightly dulled upon his gasp of pain at the quick movement. “Jansen messed up my face a bit, nothing compared to the pain of Mal shooting me in the foot or anything like that. He was trying to get the stock codes, along with tormenting the team. In fact, I got off pretty well, considering this was the point that he decided to kill our chemist, Ray, and shoot Hans in the leg. He’s an amateur, Eames. We were all tied up, but Emilia got out and got my Glock. That’s when I ended up head butting Colin Jansen through a glass wall -”

“Where you bruised your ribs?” Eames interrupted.

“No, Mr. Eames, that was a different pane of glass, I’m getting there. As I was saying, a firefight commenced and Hans was killed by Mr. Jansen’s backup, which also took him away in the process. They were in pursuit of me when I fashioned a bomb out of Ray’s remaining chemicals – don’t look at me like that, Mr. Eames, it was a simple mixture, not rocket science. That’s when I ran toward the first exit I could think of-”

“- and where you, and I quote, ‘jumped out of a five story window, onto a fire escape, with a bullet wound’?” Eames questioned, disbelieving.

“Yes, that’s when I was shot, I think. I was high off the adrenaline in my system at that point, so I didn’t feel it until later,” Arthur said. “I landed on a fire escape, rather abruptly, and shot one of the men, who fell to his death. That body’s going to be the biggest problem at the crime scene…”

Eames spread out his arms along the back of the couch, apparently satisfied with Arthur’s narrative. “So there’s the whole thing. Bankers, hypnotists, bombs, escapes out of five story high windows… you have the plot to a Bond film, here, Arthur,” Eames said with a laugh. Arthur watched him intently, noting with satisfaction the absence of a five o’clock shadow on Eames' tan face. At least Eames had gotten some time to himself, away from Arthur.

 _I hate being a burden_ , Arthur thought suddenly _. I need to leave as soon as possible._  Arthur knew Eames would not be happy with his conclusion, and did not voice his thoughts aloud. He instead looked over at Eames, who was still chuckling over the thought of Arthur as a Bond villain.

Arthur opened his palms outward in the universal gesture for _Well?  Go on - what do you think?_

“I still don’t understand why you thought working with a completely foreign team was a good idea, but I can’t judge. I’ve made some rash decisions myself, Arthur. At least you were saved by yours truly, so you could _Die Another Day_ ,” Eames said, grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur didn’t answer Eames, slightly horrified at the terrible Bond reference. He shifted to grab the tea off the table next to him. His oversized shirt bunching up in the process, pooling around his battered body. The v-neck hung scandalously low on Arthur's thin frame, his white bandages hiding some of Arthur's skin. Unfortunately, upon placing a few calls, Eames found out that Arthur’s hotel room had been ransacked by Colin’s associates. So while there was nothing of significance taken from Arthur, he was left to scramble for clothes and other items. The only thing available that wasn't elderly woman's clothes at this house was Eames’ stuff – which was woefully large on Arthur’s slim stature.

 _At least I have the PASIV_ , Arthur thought with a sigh. _I have to ask where that is_.

Eames began to speak again, no doubt having concocted another dreadful Bond joke. His joking was interrupted by the shrill ringing of a phone on the cushion beside him. Scrambling until he located the right flip phone, Eames said, “’Ello? Mate I think ye got de wrong numba." His voice was transformed into a slow Irish drawl. The brogue was much thicker than Eames' usual tone, and Arthur had to strain to understand him.

The person on the line spoke back, although Arthur couldn’t distinguish much more than their deep baritone. They had an accent as well.

Eames didn’t speak again for a long time, instead intently listening to the caller. Hanging up with a clipped, “Yes, I will,” in his normal tone, Eames flipped the phone shut.

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow.

“That was Hans,” Eames said.

Arthur’s eyebrow rose to precarious heights.


	8. A Gamblin' Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames don't agree on who goes to London.
> 
> Eames is very good at winning arguments.  
> Arthur is very good at winning arguments.
> 
> It seems a compromise is in order - along with a car ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A soundtrack for this chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A-4VGfx5lU)

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly, sweetheart.”

“I saw Hans get shot in the head, Eames! In the skull. Point blank. With a Sig Sauer.”

“A Sig Sauer? That’s so passé of them. The least they could do was buy a Heckler & Koch. Everyone knows those are more accurate.”

“You’re just partial to them because of the inception job – Mr. Eames; don’t change the subject on me… stop moving for a second, would you? Think. This is one of those rash decisions you were criticizing me about a day ago!”

Eames was in dressed in linen trousers and red silk button down, fresh and ready for travel. It looked as though he had just taken a shower, clothes sticking to his damp skin. His slicked-back hair left water falling in his wake as he paced around the cottage. Arthur watched Eames continue to rummage around, collecting various items from cabinets and counter tops and drawers, and stuffing them into a leather bag at his side.

Arthur, for his part, wobbled around determinedly after him, in one of his Eames’ white t-shirts and low-slung sweatpants. His hair was similarly wet, unruly locks sticking to his bruised but healing face.

As they moved into the living room, Arthur opted to lean heavily against the door jamb, continuing to reason futilely to Eames’ turned back.

“This is idiotic. You can’t just up and decide to meet a person you never met. Who, by the way, is masquerading as a dead man,” Arthur huffed, crossing his arms.

Eames turned around. He was shoving a rather large utility knife into the pocket of his knapsack, and giving Arthur one of his signature _stop-being-a-stick-in-the-mud_ looks. “And what do you suggest I do, Arthur, not go? If this is a trap, which it quite probably is, I need to see who we’re facing here. I need to understand the playing field.”

“By getting killed?” Arthur questioned dryly. “You don’t even know what Hans looks like, Eames. And since he ‘had to go’ on the phone, I didn’t get to talk to him. That’s a little too convenient; even you have to admit that.”

“What do you suggest? That you come with me?” Eames asked incredulously, buckling a closed a flap on his bag.

“Better than you dying without finding Colin Jansen!” Arthur yelled, agitated. He absentmindedly yanked his falling sweatpants up over his hip. Eames had removed the stitches in his hand after the phone call, probably to distract Arthur from dissuading him. Well, Arthur could not be redirected now. “Mr. Eames, my company would be better than you walking into a firefight alone!”

“Arthur,” Eames said cuttingly, walking backwards to plop his bag onto the coffee table. “Darling.” The bag let out an ominous thunk. “You just fainted in my shower.”

Arthur felt his cheeks grow hot. _That was a low blow._ Arthur had been conveniently forgetting about the new bruise marring his forearm, evidence of the collision with the bathroom wall. Admittedly, Arthur would’ve been a lot worse off if not for Eames jumping in to catch his falling body.

“I didn’t _faint_ ; I just… needed a rest,” Arthur contended meekly, suddenly finding great interest in his bare feet.

“’ _Just needed a rest’_ ,” Eames mimicked. “What - you thought the bottom of my shower was an appropriate place for that? While the water was still running? I had to change my clothes after fishing you out Arthur – that was my favorite shirt.”

“I’m much better than I was a few days ago, Mr. Eames,” Arthur shot back. “If that was truly Hans on the phone, I would be interested in a conversation.”

“And if it’s not a conversation? If it turns into what you said, a firefight? Goddamn it Arthur, you passed out in my bloody shower!” Eames moved closer to Arthur, his leather bag abandoned behind him on the table. Weak sunlight streamed in through the windows, creating multi-faceted rainbows in the water droplets in his hair. 

Arthur’s shirt left a water mark on the wall as he pushed off. He strode toward Eames, his tone serious, his body language as threatening as he could make it. “I can’t stand back and wait for Jansen to find me, Eames. I don’t want to stay in the city with you; I know I’m not ready for that. But if someone in my team is alive Eames, I need to know. I have a responsibility.” Arthur and Eames were now so close that their chests were almost touching. Arthur had shoved his hand onto Eames’ breastbone; as though he could physically stop Eames’ departure. Arthur could see the slash in his eyebrow from some long forgotten knife fight, his grey eyes looking at Arthur impassively, finally breaking contact to stare off at some point over his shoulder. Seeming to come to a decision, Eames’ shoulders slumped.

“One day only,” Eames grumbled finally, his hand clamping down on Arthur’s shoulder, steadying him (in Arthur’s defense, this had been a long day, and standing wasn’t his forte at the moment). “But at the first sign of danger, and I don’t care if it’s a fender bender while in the cab, you’re coming home. Here. And regardless of whether it’s Hans or not, you should come back right after the meeting.”

“Probably that night,” Arthur said, standing his ground. “If it is Hans, we have a lot to talk about in regards to the plan. And if it isn’t Hans, we will still have a lot to discuss.”

“We leave in thirty minutes,” said Eames.

“One hour,” said Arthur. “I need to find one of your suit jackets that isn’t outrageously hideous.”

Eames let out a long-suffering sigh. “I can already tell I’m going to regret this, darling.”

 

***

 

As it turned out, there could be no taxi crash to send Arthur home right away. Eames declared mysteriously that he ‘had his own method of transportation’, and wouldn’t divulge anything else. Recognizing Eames’ need for dramatic flair, Arthur followed Eames outside without further questioning. He had tried to take one of the four duffel bags that Eames had slung over his shoulder, but Eames was not having it. “Are you forgetting you were shot less than two weeks ago, darling?” Eames asked rhetorically.

And so they set off, Arthur carrying only the clothes on his back. _Which aren’t even mine_ , Arthur thought rather ruefully.

Arthur was unused to being outdoors, and the day was unusual for England - sunny and temperate, without a cloud in the sky. He squinted in the sunlight, stumbling behind Eames, warm in his slightly large suit jacket. It became quite the task for Arthur to follow, tiring quickly as they walked single file down a dusty path. Arthur didn’t complain, though. Eames, for his part, was in a great mood. He had seemingly forgotten his misgivings about bringing Arthur, happily chatting with him the whole way. He remarked upon how “shite” London’s various football clubs were performing, about money he still needed to collect from a bet, and even said good-naturedly that he “hadn’t seen this much sun since the last trip to Mombasa”.

Finally reaching the end of the dirt trail, Arthur and Eames came upon a patio of mossy rock. Here, ivy overran most of their surroundings, partially obscuring a decrepit wooden shed. Arthur walked over next to Eames, gratefully accepting the proffered thermos. While Arthur sipped, Eames tried to tug open the padlock to the dilapidated garage. “Mr. Eames, wouldn’t a key be of some use?”

 Eames sighed. “We lost the key a long time ago, Arthur.”

Coming up next to Eames, still watching him struggle with the lock, Arthur handed him back the drink. Fishing around in his suit jacket, first feeling his totem, Arthur palmed two familiar pieces of metal. He carefully sank into a squat next to the stubborn lock, wary of his left shoulder. Arthur waved Eames away impatiently.

“What are you doing, darling?” Eames questioned, quickly moving back, his form casting a shadow onto the padlock, and onto Arthur.

“Would you mind moving over, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked. When Eames didn’t budge, Arthur looked back at him, saying rather exasperatedly, “You know, Mr. Eames, I’m not always useless, I have _some_ experience. I’m trying to pick this padlock - and you’re in my light.” Eames gave a disbelieving grunt but stepped aside. Arthur took his two lock picks and began to work. After a few minutes of Eames’ impatient queries and the sliding of tumblers, the rusty lock gave a satisfying ‘click’.

Arthur stepped back, removing the rusty padlock, and Eames stepped forward. Bracing his foot against the bottom of the ivy covered entrance, Eames heaved. With an unhealthy sounding crack! the door wrenched open. Dust particles puffed out of the shed’s dark depths, and Eames coughed into his sleeve, looking back apologetically at Arthur. Eames waved him forward with the other arm, and Arthur reluctantly followed inside, pulling his suit jacket in tighter around him.

The shack was much larger than Arthur originally thought, its size obscured by the mass of the ivy. Inside the shadowy depths, Arthur saw all sorts of tools piled against the back wall, ranging from an old lawnmower, a worn rappelling harness, what looked like some medieval torture devices, a few crowbars, several sharp saws, and even a gleaming semi-automatic AR-15.

Next to the array of munitions, Arthur took in the vague outline of a car. Once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Arthur resisted the urge to snort. _Car would be a generous description_. “Is that a Land Rover, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked, rather resigned.

“It’s a classic, dear Arthur,” Eames replied in response to his tone, creaking open the dented driver’s side door. Eames seemed decidedly unconcerned about the fact that the car was more rust than metal, and looked as though it could belong in a shoddy antique show. Instead, he began pulling various weapons from the pile seemingly at random, stacking them into one of the empty duffel bags. Once full, Eames’ began to heave the bags into the back hatch.

Meanwhile, Arthur walked around to crack the door open to the passenger seat, noting the avalanche of black flecks of paint that floated to the ground. Placing a slim dress shoe onto the corroded runner, Arthur swung inside. Once in the bumpy seat, Arthur grimaced, wrapping a hand around his left shoulder.

“Alright there, Arthur?” Eames asked, hopping in and shoving the key into the ignition. “This won’t be the most pleasant ride.” Eames fastened his worn seat belt, checking to make sure Arthur was wearing his – _lucky this bucket of rust has them_ – before turning over the engine a few times, coaxing the car to life.

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Eames.” Arthur said over the roar of the engine. He wished he had held his tongue until the car jolted into motion. Every bump and every dip in the road was amplified as they made their way into the sun, the lack of suspension very apparent. They bounced onto the road with the undignified sputtering of the engine, black smoke trailing in their wake. _At least the engine calmed down so I can hear myself think,_ Arthur thought _._ Leaning back into his seat, Arthur tried to remain optimistic about their chances of reaching London in one piece. Tuning out Eames’ idle chatter, he closed his eyes, exhaustion winning out over the nauseating movements of the vehicle. Trying to relax, Arthur drifted, listening to the turning of the wheels, the creaky shifting gears, the radio, Eames’ singing… _Wait, Eames’ singing?_

Arthur knew Eames was good with words; he was an excellent forger and a con man for a reason. But Arthur had never heard Eames’ voice like this. Arthur was reminded that as much as they had worked together, Arthur had never endeavored to develop a close personal relationship with Eames. He found himself entranced by Eames’ voice. Arthur was hit with a wave of something - something telling him, with a jolt of surprise, that he didn’t want to stop learning about Eames’ idiosyncrasies. Over what felt like eons of recovery time, Arthur had been trying to convince himself that nothing had changed between them. Maybe Arthur owed Eames a drink or ten, but it’s not like they were blood brothers. Yet something had changed.  _Shifted._

It seemed Arthur couldn’t remember the last time a friend drove him around in the waking world, injured or not.

Arthur's thoughts were interrupted by the radio's increased volume, courtesy of Eames. Melancholic guitar riffs echoed around the interior of the car and Arthur opened his eyes to Eames half-yelling, half singing the first stanza of “House of the Rising Sun”. Eames turned to Arthur, grinning. His whole demeanor had relaxed, wind streaming in through his opened window, rifling through his hair and rippling over his unbuttoned silk shirt. “…they callll the rissiiinnng sun,” Eames crooned, letting go of the steering wheel to wave around his arms. “And it’s been the ruinnn of manyyyy a poor boy,” catching Arthur’s eye, Eames winked suggestively, “Anddd God, I know, I’m one.”

“My motherrr was a tailor,” Eames continued. “She sewed my new blue jeans.” Eames’ voice was undoubtedly infectious, and Arthur found himself unconsciously humming along under his breath. “My father was a gamblin’ man,” All at once and vividly Arthur was struck with the scene of the smoky taverns of Mombasa, Eames fingering his poker chips. “Down, in New Orleans.”  The rolling of the dice flashed through Arthur’s mind, his dice, and scarlet blood on the slippery wooden floor. And then a horrendous paisley shirt… _Oh, damn it all._

“Now the only thing a gambler needs-” Eames cut off abruptly when Arthur’s voice joined him, but quickly gathered to attack the next line with ferocity. “- is a suitcase and a trunk. And the only time he’s satisfied-” here Arthur’ mind flashed back to the impromptu celebration they had held in that tavern. “- is when he’s on a drunk.”

The instruments warbled on, and Arthur felt suspended in a moment of disbelief as they continued singing. Eames looked radiant, one with hand drumming along on the steering wheel. Arthur couldn't tear his eyes away from him, and felt the knot of ever-present tension in his stomach ease, just a bit. “Well, I got one foot on the platform, the other foot on the train… I’m goin’ back to New Orleans… To wear that ball and chain.” Arthur’s mind drifted to their destination ahead, to all the things they hoped to figure out – namely Colin Jansen.

Arthur caught Eames looking intently at something out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to follow Eames’ direction of sight – only to realize Eames’ gaze led back to himself. Arthur looked down at his attire – his stained black dress pants, the borrowed red tie. He had felt naked the night Eames stitched him back together, moonlight illuminating all of his flaws. But Arthur felt surprisingly alright with being the subject of Eames’ attention now. He felt healthier, stronger. “Well there is a house in New Orleans - they call the Rising Sun…” Arthur looked up, meeting Eames’ stare. “…and it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy,” Here Eames’ voice pitched quieter, his eyes still holding Arthur’s, vibrato barely audible over the noise of the engine. “And God I know I’m one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, writing song lyrics is hard! As per usual, this chapter was longer than I thought it was going to be.
> 
> I apologise I didn't get to Hans - I guess you'll just be kept in suspense for a little while longer.  
> No worries, though, although it might not seem like it, I did get some important details established!
> 
> Please leave comments, criticisms, kudos, concerns, etc. I love hearing from readers. :)
> 
> <3


	9. Misconceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames finally arrive in London.

 

After the song, Arthur felt a quiet sort of contentment settle over the car. The companionable silence was only interrupted by the car’s engine and the occasional shifting of gears. Even Arthur’s head remained blessedly quiet.

But, slowly, Arthur’s aches came back to him. The dull ache in his head and the fresh throbbing of his arm competed for attention. Arthur felt the ever present pain of his bullet wound and bruised ribs, not to mention the spreading exhaustion. It fell over him, a smothering blanket.

Arthur felt like a rubber band that had been stretched for too long – _I can’t seem to find my way back into shape_. He couldn’t wait to lay down, preferably with some heavy drugs in his system. Arthur was ready to sleep forever, to be done with this meeting. _But wait_ _–_ “Eames?” Arthur asked, breaking the quiet. “Where – where are we going for this meeting?” Arthur said ineloquently, stunned that it had slipped his mind to ask earlier. Arthur was forgetting to manage everything like he usually did; instead he was putting trust – unconsciously – in Eames _. Maybe I have a concussion after all_ , Arthur thought worriedly.

“Good question darling,” Eames said, taking one hand off the wheel. Arthur watched Eames rummage around in the pocket of his pants, his hands seemingly too large to maneuver well. Eventually, Eames successfully pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Smoothing it out on his thigh, Eames passed the scrap over to Arthur, eyes still on the bumpy road. Arthur reached out to take the note, tugging when Eames didn’t release his grip. Finally, when Arthur got the paper, he squinted at it uncomprehendingly. Many seconds later, Arthur deciphered the blue scrawled ink that was Eames’ handwriting.

“Eddie’s Café,” Arthur read aloud, incredulous.

“What?” Eames asked, glancing over. “Do you know it? I picked it out relatively quickly. There’s no modern security, no cameras. But if there’s a problem, I could -”

“No, no, it’s fine, just sounds familiar,” Arthur said in a rush. _What are the odds?_ Arthur tried to school his face back into a passably neutral expression. He wasn’t going to throw a fit over the _tiny_ possibility it was the same coffee place. Eames already stated at the first sign of trouble Arthur was off the job; the possibility of having a past interaction with a barista was not going to be the deal breaker. No, they were going to get there early and scope out the café and be ready for ‘Hans’, whoever it was.

Everything was going to go smoothly.

_Yeah, sure, that’s what you said about the Jansen job._

Arthur’s subconscious could be a bitch sometimes.

 

***

 

With a painful lurch, Eames maneuvered the Land Rover over to the side of the street.

Throwing the car in park, Eames flung open his door. “Ready, darling?” Eames asked, hopping to the ground with a flourish. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his red shirt, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur. “I can’t wait to deliver some retribution,” Eames said to him, slamming his door. Arthur got out languidly, pushing on the door handle as he tried to shake himself fully awake.

Eames began moving. “Come to the boot, Arthur!” Eames’ voice said from somewhere behind the vehicle.

Opening the door fully, Arthur eased himself out at a much slower pace.

Arthur stood, straightening his slightly large jacket. Arthur heard a _thunk_ from behind him, and turned to see their thermos bouncing out of the car. It skittered away from him, rolling across the uneven cobblestones. Arthur cursed under his breath, slamming the car’s door. Turning and walking closer to the rolling object, Arthur mentally prepared himself to bend down.

Arthur felt a strike of déjà vu when a hand was held out in front of him, this time proffering the fallen container. Arthur reached out, making eye contact with the woman holding the thermos. Dark skin, freckles, and pretty brown eyes framed by curly hair. “Those bruises look painful,” the woman said slowly, her cream pea coat creasing as she looked him up and down. She winced sympathetically as she took in Arthur’s face once again. “Bad night at ze pub?”

Arthur slowly straightened back up, feeling a familiar fake smile grace his face. “Car crash, actually,” Arthur responded, focusing on her black curls and not her eyes. He had always been good at lying, but being around Eames made him self-conscious about his poker face.

Darling!” Speaking of Eames, his voice sounded from behind the beat-up black car. “Did you get lost your way over? Is London too confusing for you?”

Arthur once again had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Got to go,” Arthur said, probably less apologetically than he should’ve been. Arthur nodded once more before rushing away, glad to have an excuse to stop human interaction. Arthur wasn’t exactly Mr. Charisma at the moment.

 _Not that I really am in normal circumstances,_ Arthur thought rather ruefully. _That is Eames’ forte._

Arthur palmed the thermos in his tender left hand, joining Eames at the trunk of the car. The back was open and piled high with their assorted green duffel bags. Eames looked over at Arthur, raising an eyebrow as if to say _what took you so long?_

Arthur held out the thermos mutely, setting it in empty space next to the bags. Eames reached over him, unzipping the top bag. “So,” Arthur said, eyeing the AR-15 piled on top. “What weapons are we bringing with us?”

“Not much, Arthur,” Eames said with a smile that showed all of his teeth. _He truly looks the con man today_ , Arthur thought distractedly, taking in Eames’ predatory grin, silk button down, and gelled dark hair.

“Another reason I picked this café is because I got one of my mates to swing by yesterday,” Eames continued, oblivious to Arthur’s train of thought. “He stocked explosives, cameras, etcetera all over, along with a handgun by the toilets.” Arthur nodded in appreciation, happy with the precaution. “The man on the phone was clear he would come unarmed,” here Eames’ smile became devious, “but I had no intention of returning the favor.”

“I’ll take the detonation device,” Arthur stated, holding his hand out expectantly. A few years ago, Arthur had found out the hard way Eames was a little too explosion-happy. “I haven’t recovered from the memories of Egypt just yet, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said as he slipped out of his suit jacket. Holding the piece of clothing in front of him, he removed his token from the pocket.

Eames pulled a face, holding out the tiny black box to Arthur as though he had expected this conversation. “Aw, darling, Cairo was a brilliant job. We rescued that dehydrated poodle _and_ took down that mad religious cult!” He exclaimed brightly, conveniently overlooking the fact that they had also destroyed several ancient monuments in the process, and also may have redirected a part of the Nile River.

“I think you’re forgetting about the part where we blew up a section of the Mogamma - a highly regarded government building,” Arthur said dryly, inspecting the device. It had several buttons, each cataloguing a section of the café. _Doorway. Counter. Toilets. Stock room._ It seemed Eames’ friend had prepared a bomb for every part of the store imaginable. Arthur could only guess how he had planted so many explosives without being caught.

Memorizing the positions of each labeled control, Arthur slipped the box into his pants pocket as Eames slipped on the traded jacket. Although Arthur felt bare without it, he knew Eames would need it more than him. Arthur was loath to admit weakness, but he acknowledged Eames would have to do most of the combat if they ran into trouble. As Eames so colorfully described, Arthur would lose in a fight 'to the inebriated, blindfolded, flu-stricken Queen' at the moment.

And therefore Eames got the suit jacket, to hide the bulk of the weapons.

As Arthur helped Eames conceal weapons under his jacket, he nudged him surreptitiously every time a bystander passed. To the citizens of London, Arthur and Eames looked the model of nonchalance, casually leaning against the beat up car, chatting intimately. Little did the people walking by know, they were passing enough munitions to rival the whole of London’s police department.

And so when they paused for the umpteenth time, this instance being for two teenagers that eyed them appreciatively, Eames shot the pair what Arthur mentally called the ‘come hither’ look, and Arthur pushed up the sleeves of his white shirt while looking down to conceal his contusions. It was a movement meant to be shy and demure, rather than a reveal of a man who looked as though he belonged in jail, a hospital, or both.

Finally, Eames and Arthur finished preparing, beginning the short walk to the café. Even while smuggling the small arsenal under his suit jacket, Eames strode in a smooth, jaunty manner side by side with Arthur. Arthur, although not quite so flamboyant, felt much more confident than he had been in a while, armed once again with his familiar Glock – albeit barely concealed under the folds of his shirt. The detonation box lay heavy in his pants’ pocket.

In the chaos of the planning, Arthur had forgotten about the impressive bruise currently marring his left forearm.

 

***

 

As Arthur’s luck would have it, the meeting place was located at the very same café as before.

He eyed the familiar red brick front with trepidation, the same large hanging plants obscuring the doorway. Unlike Arthur’s previous visit (where he had been half conscious) he noticed the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above the shop, proudly proclaiming _Eddie’s Café_.

Eames entered the building ahead of Arthur, his right hand inside his jacket. _No doubt gripping one of the several tools in there that could kill someone_ , Arthur thought. Dimly, he heard the chime of a bell as he slipped in after Eames, the wooden door firmly closing behind them both.

Arthur scanned the café, noting the empty seats. _Good._ Arthur thought. _We’re here first._

“Good morning, lads!” Uttered a jovial voice to their right, interrupting Arthur’s train of thought. Arthur’s gaze snapped over to meet the source of the salutation, the bruises across his face protesting at the rapid movement. “What can I get -” The sunny voice broke off, familiar eyes meeting Arthur’s own. “ _Eames?_ ” Eddie asked dubiously, his green eyes widening behind his tortoiseshell glasses. The real Eames started, bumping back into Arthur’s frozen form. Arthur flailed out from behind Eames, away from his reeling body.

Eddie had been focusing on Arthur, but at Eames’ sudden movement, his attention was redirected. Arthur smiled sheepishly. “Hello, Eddie!” Arthur called awkwardly, waving his right hand high in greeting. _Look over here_ , Arthur pleaded silently. He needed Eames to recover from the shock of hearing his own name without the scrutiny of Eddie added on.

Contrary to the pleased reception Arthur had been hoping for, Eddie’s gaze darkened as it flitted back, his demeanor rapidly changing as he took in Arthur again.

Arthur was utterly confused. He could think of no other words for the emotion currently showing on Eddie’s face – fury.

Arthur stared back uncomprehendingly, until he belatedly recalled the fresh discoloration on his arm – his raised arm. _Shit_ , Arthur thought. He pulled his waving limb back down quickly, but the damage was done.

 _This does not look good. What other plausible explanation can I say? I can’t go back on my story now, I can’t be memorable, Eddie might let something slip to the wrong people…_ Why _did I have to go with domestic abuse as my cover story?_ Arthur’s thoughts raced, quickly creating and discarding ideas as they flew in his head. _What if I claimed Eames’ was my brother or something?_ But Eames’ looked nothing like Arthur. And in the haze of the incident, Arthur remembered babbling about his ‘abusive’ boyfriend – his British, tall, imposing, boyfriend. _Can’t really mistake Eames as anything else but that._ _Fuck. I’m an idiot._ _Seriously, why can’t I think intelligently lately?_ Arthur berated himself silently, although even he realized that no one could’ve predicted this. _Back to the situation Arthur._ _Stop over-analyzing. Snap out of it._

Eddie, his eyes blazing, flung down his towel at the sight of Arthur’s arm. He locked his gaze onto Eames, storming out from behind the glossy counter.

Eames sensed the danger, if not understanding the cause, his stance turning wary, ready. His new posture was too protective of Arthur to account for simple acquaintances, and Arthur grudgingly threw out the plausibility of ‘work friends’.

Arthur tried to slide away from him, to make some space, but Eames moved closer instinctively. His hand was still firmly buried in his jacket. “Is this your boyfriend?” Eddie demanded at Eames, pointing at Arthur.

“None of your business, mate,” Eames snapped instantly, domineeringly, his voice ominous. Eames drew nearer to Arthur, blocking his view of the situation with his body.

 _You don’t understand!_ Arthur raged at Eames silently, trying to work out mentally how to inform Eames of the situation without compromising their identities. Arthur _still_ had no ideas. _I have to try something._ He edged around into Eames’ field of vision.

Eames placed an arm against Arthur’s chest, pushing him back. Arthur knew Eames had switched to combat mode – assess the threat, protect the civilian – and right now Eddie was the threat, and Arthur was the civilian in the crossfire.

Arthur shook off the shove, irritated yet understanding, but Eddie’s gaze locked on to the commanding motion. His expression grew even more incensed.

 _You deserve more than you have right now._ Eddie’s past words rang through Arthur’s mind, now a warning, a promise.

“Wait!” Arthur exclaimed, stepping forward. _Maybe if I reason with Eddie everything will work out._

Arthur was physically stopped by Eames again, with his hand this time.

“Doesn’t seem to be the best moment, darling,” Eames hissed, his eyes firmly locked onto ‘the threat’.

“ _Get your hand off him_.” Eddie growled heatedly, stepping closer.

Eames and Eddie were less than two meters apart now, their postures aggressive.

 _I never thought I would be the person of interest in the middle of a love triangle._ The thought sprung unbidden into Arthur’s mind. _Focus!_ Arthur commanded to himself. _But what can I do?_

“Or what?” Eames taunted, lashing back at Eddie. “Who are _you_ to tell me what to do, mate? What _Eames_ and I do is _our_ business, and I don’t know who you think you are.”

“Wait, wait,” Arthur began again, trying to stem the rising tension. Eames’ hadn’t seen the bruise, only the unexplained reaction from Eddie. _Forget about the cover._ Arthur thought impulsively. “There’s been a misunderstanding-”

“Oh no,” said Eddie, cutting Arthur off with a sympathetic yet firm look. “I don’t think there’s been any misunderstanding. This fucking excuse of a human being, this _wanker_ has the audacity to step in here, with his recently injured boyfriend, obviously by someone’s -”

“Who are you calling a wanker?” Eames said threateningly, closing the gap between him and Eddie. He grabbed a fistful of Eddie’s red apron, ignoring delayed punch to the jaw from Eddie. Eames shoved Eddie against the counter, Eddie pushing at the front of his chest, nails digging into Eames’ silk collar, and Arthur shoved himself in between the two to separate them from actually fighting, injury be damned –

Then the bell by the door tinkled, signaling another customer.

Eames’, Eddie’s, and Arthur’s heads snapped around in unison. Eames unconsciously loosened his hold on Eddie’s apron, and Eddie took the opportunity to roughly jerk himself out of his grip. Eddie self-consciously ran his fingers through his blonde undercut, and Arthur stood staring beside Eames, calculating.

An imposing man stood in the entryway. He was wearing tan pants and an olive green shirt.

Eames muttered something that Arthur didn’t catch, and turned to face the newcomer.

The bearded man, obviously sensing the tension in the room, stopped in his tracks. “Hello,” he said pleasantly, the bob of his head accenting his buzz cut. “If this is a bad time, I will leave. But I am looking for someone, and I think you may be able to help.” The bulky man’s tone was clipped, as though he was trying very hard to accent every word correctly.

Eames tensed up visibly. He made a subtle gesture to attract Arthur’s attention, moving his joined forefinger and middle finger, forward and back. _Column formation._ Arthur’s subconscious recognized the military signal immediately, falling in slightly behind Eames even before his conscious brain caught up. Eames then, slowly, as he asked the man, “And why would you think that?” stretched his thumb and pointer finger perpendicular, creating a universal sign. _Pistol._ Arthur instantly zeroed in on the man’s lower torso, noting the subtle outline  of the gun near the hem of his shirt. His military-issued shirt.

_Unarmed, my ass._

“I know you can help, because we have talked previously. I am Hans.” The tall man stated.

“I don’t know what is going on,” said Eddie, his gaze flickering over to Arthur and back, “but I don’t think this is a really good time, mate.”

“It’s fine, Eddie,” Arthur said to him, the calm professional. “We were just leaving. Obviously this man is confused,” Arthur said pointedly, the scorn evident in his tone. Arthur slipped one hand in his pocket that held the detonation remote, fingering the specific button that would explode the doorway bomb. They might get injured, but this ‘Hans’ would be dead.

“Yes,” Eames chimed in. Arthur could feel the daggers in his gaze just by listening to the tone of his voice. “This is not the Hans we know.”

“Wait, wait, _no_ , just - ” The man lost his cool façade, his arm careening dangerously close to the firearm by his side –

And Arthur whipped his Glock out, Eames a second faster with his Heckler & Koch. They pointed the guns at Hans, one aimed for his torso, the other his head.

 Hans looked supremely calm for being the sole target of two expert killers.

“Oh my god.” Eddie stuttered into the tense silence. “Oh my god. What is happening. I don’t understand. Bloody hell. Are those real guns?”

The bell by the door chimed again, and Arthur’s gun switched to the entry way as yet another person entered the coffee shop.

But this time, it wasn’t a stranger who entered Eddie’s Café.

Wild black curls, a light pea coat, and slick black heels.

It was the woman from the street, the woman who had helped Arthur with his fallen drink.

 _She doesn’t seem to be helping now_ , Arthur thought grimly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andddd the plot is progressing.  
> Whew, this was a doozy. I know I promised an earlier update, but the way I do things I won't release a chapter until I have the next one at least drafted.  
> So, if you enjoyed this one, stay tuned, because the next one is pretty action-packed. ;)
> 
> Every time I get a comment it makes my day, along with motivation to write faster.  
> I'm so grateful for the outpouring of support, whether it be kudos, comments, or hits.
> 
> And for those wondering about Eames' mum (because, honestly, her appearance is taking much longer than anticipated), please hang in there - because soon she's going to have so much screen time you'll be sick of her.
> 
> <3


	10. Spilled Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is not taking R&R seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter - probably the hardest one yet to write!

Arthur and Eames both look towards the newcomer. Taking advantage of their distraction, the bulky man lunged forward, knocking Eames back into the counter, simultaneously savagely reaching for and twisting his gun hand. Eames’ Heckler & Koch clattered out of his grip, sliding across the slick floors.

Arthur tracked the man’s progress down the sight of his Glock. _I could shoot him, but what if the bullet over penetrated? And that woman might have a weapon, I can’t ignore her._ And so the fight began, with Arthur training his gun on the woman while still eyeing the two men.

Eames fought the way he lived – smoothly, offensively, and willing to take risks. The man was his opposite – he threw punches sparingly, probably hoping to tire Eames out. _Good luck with that,_ Arthur thought. _If Eames can take down five Nigerian arms dealers in the heat of Mombasa, he’s not going to tire quickly in downtown London._

The man threw another swift punch, making contact with Eames’ guard. Eames took the opportunity to reach down, knocking the man’s gun out of his waistband. Arthur wasn’t sure why the man hadn’t reached for the firearm earlier, but he didn’t dwell on it – he had bigger problems. Arthur saw the woman in his peripheral vision, immobile under the threat of his gun.

With his Glock still targeting her chest, Arthur ran over to her, strategies running through his mind in quick succession. _Eames will just have to defend himself for a minute._

Arthur barreled into the woman, catching her by surprise. His body railed against the buttons on her peacoat, his Glock pressing against her sternum. She rolled with their momentum as Arthur tackled her. _An experienced fighter, then._ Arthur was prepared for combat – if the man wasn’t deterred by a gun, she wouldn’t be either. But the woman didn’t try to injure him further as they rolled, her impractical heels tangling with his legs.

Slightly miscalculating the takedown because of his wounded torso, Arthur ended up on the bottom of the two, gun squished between his ribs and her torso. _Never a good place to be._ He kept a steady grip on her back with one hand, his Glock pressing against her ribcage with the other. He locked his legs behind her head. Arthur felt his chest and shoulder straining, but pushed through the pain, focused. Tightening his form, Arthur slipped his gun out from between them, positioning for a triangle choke. _I don’t want to kill her yet. We need information, not a scene._

The woman didn’t react with blind panic that usually occurred under the threat of asphyxia. She simply looked down at him, her gaze steely - but not hostile. “I em not dee threat!” She shouted to him, barely audible over Eddie’s incoherent yelling and the crashes of the fight echoing behind them. “I just vant to talk! Go help your freeind!”

Arthur was too experienced, or perhaps jaded, to believe her. _She’ll kill me as soon as I let her out of this._ Making to a decision, Arthur constricted his hold, her arm caught on between his legs and chest while his legs locked around her head like a vice. She was unconscious within seconds, her body falling limp on top of him.

Nothing if not efficient, Arthur pushed away from her lifeless body, smoothly rolling to his feet. His Glock was back in his hand, and he could feel something warm blooming across his back. Ignoring it, he swung back behind the counter, noting Eddie’s shell-shocked form on the stool.

Eames, similar to what Arthur had done with the woman, was trying to subdue the man. But the stranger in the green shirt seemed much less compliant than his counterpart, fighting back hard. _Although he seems reluctant to place a killing blow_ , Arthur noted.

Arthur rummaged around over the counters, wondering why Eames was not using his arsenal of weapons. But he realized Eames was without his jacket, his silk shirt shining like blood under the café lights. O _dd_ , Arthur thought. _I wonder what happen… can’t over analyze now._ Hearing the woman’s groans, Arthur shoved his Glock back into his waistband. _I’ll help you in a second, Eames, just let me take care of this._ Arthur scooped up a green apron from behind the counter, and snagged the white towel Eddie had thrown down earlier off the floor.

Arthur was just rising back to his full height when the struggle between Eames and the man turned desperate, their bodies careening backwards over the counter. As they flipped, the two men sent empty cups flying, as well as knocking over the row of coffee pots sitting on a burner. Coffee spilled everywhere, creating a steaming tsunami that rushed straight towards Arthur. He immediately jumped back from the spray, but was unable to avoid the shower of liquid. Arthur cried out as the scalding coffee splashed across his left arm, staining his white shirt.

Shirt and skin still steaming, Arthur ran back to the disoriented woman, hearing the thumps behind him as Eames continued fighting with his formidable opponent. Arthur shoved the towel in the woman’s mouth, dodging her kicking form. He was just tying the woman’s hands together when Eddie finally moved, flying off from his position on the stool. Looking around wildly, Eddie gave once last glance to Eames before fleeing back into the depths of the shop. Arthur cursed silently. _He better not call emergency services._ Arthur finished binding the woman’s hands with the green apron, completing the bind by knotting the apron to one of the legs of the tables. Arthur, angry he didn’t think to do it earlier, locked the front door of the coffee shop, prohibiting wayward customers from entering. He then looked up, taking in the scene of disarray.

Eames and the man were standing up once more, both sporting an array of dripping cuts. Arthur whipped his head around to see how he could help, but didn’t see Eames’ jacket or his weapons anywhere in sight. _If I shoot, I’ll attract bystanders, and then police officers. Can we chance that? Better just take the man out together._

Arthur ran over, skidding sideways across the wet floor, so focused on assessing the fight that he forgot about the puddles of coffee. Eames’ back was to Arthur, and the blond man was swinging to parry Eames’ uppercut. Taking the blow to the jaw, the man twisted to grab a wooden cutting board. He swung the object, aiming for Eames’ temple. Eames managed to catch the block of wood with a resounding _smack_ , only to have his face snap backwards from the man’s left-handed cross. Staggering, Eames’ hands scrabbled for purchase over the counter, searching for a similar projectile. Arthur, seeing an opportunity to help, slid one of the half-spilled coffee pots towards him. Eames’ grip closed around the handle, jerking the pot forward. Coffee splashed all over the man’s face and he screamed loudly, flailing. Dropping the pot, Eames immediately raising his guard back up, oblivious to Arthur’s arrival behind him.

Seeing his opening, Arthur dove forward, past Eames, grabbing one of the man’s arms while dodging his fierce kick to the leg. Eames threw a hook to the side of the man’s head, momentarily stunning him. Arthur, still retaining a grip on the man’s arm, twisted it back in a restraining manner, and steadied his Glock. The man struggled, knocking his head back in a last ditch attempt at a head-butt Arthur. Arthur tried to dodge the blow, but was too slow, taking the force of his skull to his injured shoulder.

Arthur heard an inhuman howl of pain echo throughout the café, and realized it was him.

Somehow, someway, through the pain Arthur’s fingers still closed around the flesh of the man’s wrist. Still partially blinded by red hot agony, Arthur managed a front kick into the man’s back. They fell forward together towards Eames, Arthur fighting to retain his dominant position. He pressed his Glock into the man’s head, and the man finally stilled somewhat, realizing it was all over.

Eames quickly piled on top of the man as well, forcing his head deeper into the puddle of lukewarm coffee staining the floor. He took the Glock out of Arthur’s hand. “Arthur. Arthur, I got him! Move back!” Arthur’s vision was still clearing. He barely even realized he was still holding the man in a submission hold. At Eames’ command, Arthur fell back. He meant to rock onto his heels, but continued to fall back, the air escaping him in a whoosh. Edging back in an awkward crawl, Arthur rested his head against the counter, his hair becoming covered in the sticky coffee staining it. Arthur grimaced, holding his injured shoulder with a bloody hand – _bloody? When did that happen?_ – and let himself take a brief respite. But something niggled at the back of Arthur’s mind, something he couldn’t ignore – _the woman and Eddie._

Arthur suppressed a groan, staggering unsteadily to his feet. He stretched, stepping over Eames’ crouched form as he zip-tied together the man’s hands and feet. _Where did the zip ties come from?_ Arthur decided he didn’t particularly care, continuing to make his way over to where the woman sat, fettered to the table.

Arthur’s socks squished with excess liquid as he squatted down next to her. The woman looked indignant, her dark skin flushed with outrage, her brown eyes glinting. _If looks could kill, I would be dead._

Arthur glanced over, making sure the front blinds were still firmly drawn – _one thing that went right, at least_. Arthur untied her bonds from where they connected with the table. Still keeping the knot tight that connected her hands, he dragged the bound woman. Ignoring her kicking and struggling, he slid her along the floor, to where he remembered the toilets to be. Throwing her inside the room, Arthur shut the door, wedging a chair in front of the handle. _Hopefully that will keep her occupied for a while._

Arthur strode back further into the hallway, to where he remembered the stock room to be. Absentmindedly, he reached for his Glock, but did a double take when his hand brushed empty air. _Where… oh, that’s right, Eames has it._ It wasn’t a big deal – Eddie had barely managed to run off from his seat, never mind join in on the fighting. Arthur didn’t need a gun to calm him down. _I’d like to think I have slightly more people skills than that_.

Arthur crept into the stock room, taking in the aging array of wooden shelves and stacked products. Condensed milk, boxes of tea bags, and rows and rows of coffee beans were neatly ordered and labeled along the shelves. Arthur checked the first aisle, and upon no sign of Eddie, strode over to the next one. He rounded the corner – and then promptly had a gun leveled at him.

 _So it’s going to be this kind of day,_ Arthur thought wearily.

 

***

 

Eddie sat, huddled, at the end of the aisle. Eames’ missing suit jacket sat in a slumped pile next to him, liner up. The array of weapons was spread out prominently; looking menacing even to Arthur’s veteran eyes. Eddie clutched the .22 that had been secured in a side pocket. His hands shook as he pointed the barrel at Arthur, but he aimed it nonetheless.

“Hello, Eddie,” Arthur said, deliberately calm, hands going skyward. “I’m going to walk towards you now.”

“No!” Eddie shouted, waving the weapon, causing Arthur to flatten himself sideways, wary of discharge. “Just – just leave me alone! I don’t know what’s going on. I’d like you to leave.”

 _Typical English manners,_ Arthur thought, trying not to let his mirth show on his face. _Anywhere else, I’d get wild profanities._

“Alright, Eddie, I’ll leave. But I want to help you,” - here Arthur inched forward a few centimeters – “because you helped me when I was in trouble.” Eddie looked uncertain, his pupils blown wide behind his glasses, his pale button up damp with sweat. “So,” Arthur walked forward even more, his footsteps echoing in the small room. Eddie’s chest was heaving. “Let me help you.” Arthur reached forward, gently grasping the gun in one of his sweaty hands, lowering it quickly. He eased the .22 out of Eddie’s shaking hand, turning on the safety. Arthur slipped it into his waistband.

Arthur hated wasting time, but wanted to make sure Eddie wouldn’t do something rash as soon as he rejoined Eames. He sat next to Eddie with a sigh. He was unsure what they, being Eames and Arthur, would have to do to keep Eddie from turning this into a bigger mess, but Arthur figured they could deal with that later. “Better?” Arthur asked from his position next to the other man on the floor.

“Not really, E- mate,” Eddie mumbled. “I don’t even know if Eames is your real name, and I’ve seen more guns today than I’ve seen in my entire life.”

Arthur flashed him a slightly apologetic guilty smile, reaching over to snag Eames’ jacket. “Sorry about that whole mess,” Arthur forced out, purposefully forgetting to tell Eddie his real name. “I wouldn’t have lied to you if it wasn’t immediately necessary.”

“I’m still not convinced your relationship with that other man is healthy.” Eddie said. Arthur sighed deeply. _Why couldn’t this man give him a break?_ “But,” Eddie continued, “I know you must have larger issues to deal with at the moment. I didn’t know what else I could do, so I radioed for backup using a device in this jacket. I didn’t think you would want authorities to be called.”

“ _What did you do_?” Arthur could barely control his tone as he snapped to his feet, stress flooding back into him. He snatched up Eames’ jacket, hastily searching for mysterious device Eddie had spoken about.

“Right here, calm down, _here mate_.” Eddie reached his other hand out to Arthur, proffering a device that looked suspiciously like a two-way radio. Upon closer inspection, Arthur recognized it as one of the newer models used for communication within military circles.

Arthur hadn’t known Eames was carrying the device, but he supposed it made sense. Although brash, Arthur knew Eames wasn’t unintelligent, and would plan for disaster, bombs planted in the café or not. _I wish he had told me about this earlier._ “Eddie,” Arthur began, his voice deliberately calm. “What did you do with the radio?”

Eddie mimed pressing a button with his hand. “I just pressed the control that said ‘call’.”

Arthur could feel a migraine beginning at the edges of his vision.

“And what did you say?” Arthur asked, between gritted teeth.

“I didn’t!” Eddie seemed suddenly proud of himself, smiling at Arthur from the floor. “I tapped out the signal for ‘SOS’ that my pa taught me while camping. I thought it was the bee knees back then, so I remembered it.”

“You used Morse Code?” Arthur asked, feeling something tighten in his already sore stomach.

“Sure, mate, if that’s what it’s called. I could never be arsed to learn the technical term.”

Arthur stared at him.

He could imagine what Eddie saw in front of him right now – Arthur’s bruises were tinted greenish-purple on his cheekbones, not to mention the healing jagged gash on one side, and his dirtied and stained white shirt. His burned pink skin peeked out underneath the ruined shirt, and his black hair was crusted in clumps sticky with coffee. Arthur’s hand that held Eames’ jacket was bloody, and his posture was stiff, a byproduct of his day – too long with too little rest.

What Arthur couldn’t imagine was the implications of Eddie’s possibly received signal. With any other coworkers, Arthur could safely laugh off the faux pas and leave this stock room with faith no one would pay mind to the absurd gesture.

But the people in the dreamsharing world were not your average coworkers, especially ones who aligned themselves with Arthur and Eames. They were serious, often former military, and fiercely loyal.

_Enough that they would track down a distress signal to a café in the middle of London._

Arthur stood there in front of Eddie, these thoughts raced through his mind, implications settling in. Eames’ suit jacket felt heavy in his hand.

Without another word, Arthur turned and left Eddie among the coffee containers.

Sprinting back to the front of the shop, Arthur rapidly scanned the area, seeing nothing out of place. The tilted chair was still in place in front of the bathroom door, and the same chairs and tables lay knocked over, remnants of the fight. The only difference was that Eames had dragged the man out from behind the coffee-stained counter, and secured his zip-tied body to one of the support beams by the front of the shop. Eames was standing in front of the man, a kitchen knife held in his right hand. Even from the back, Arthur recognized the familiar set of Eames’ shoulders within his tattered shirt. And as he moved closer, Arthur saw the clenched jaw. There was only one conclusion Arthur could come to - Eames was supremely ticked off.

Arthur walked next to Eames’ side, taking in the beat-up man on the floor. There was no gag over his mouth, and blood spattered the ground around him. _Eames was definitely… talking to this man, to say the least._

“What have you found out, Eames?” Arthur asked, wiping his bloody hand across his sticky forehead. _We’re going to have fun getting out of here undetected_ , Arthur thought, taking in the various stains and smears that littered both their clothes, along with their disheveled appearances. Eames said something quietly in response, too quiet for Arthur to hear. “What did you say, Mr. Eames?” Arthur questioned, moving marginally closer. _Maybe he was more injured than I thought._

“I said; he was here to kidnap _you_.” Eames growled. The man flinched back as Eames twirled the knife in his hand.  “He heard the fight between that arse owner and I.” Eames looked over to Arthur, grave. “He thought I was you because that man called you Eames, repeatedly. He was supposed to take you back to Colin Jansen, where I presume you would have been tortured extensively and then murdered, in that order.”

It wasn’t like Eames to be this severe, they were both used to threats; that’s all the dreamsharing world was. It was something they both dealt with daily, crazy hypnotists or not. “So what do we do with him?” Arthur asked. He would question Eames’ about his abnormal behavior later.

“I was thinking -”

But Arthur didn’t get to hear exactly what Eames was thinking, because that’s when the front door was kicked open. Literally.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself I would post this update by the weekend, and I just managed it.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who commented last chapter, you guys are the absolute best!  
> A little shoutout to nerdherderette as well. They haven't even watched Inception before, and yet preserved through my story. If that's not going above and beyond, I don't know what is.
> 
> I don't know if she's reading this but I got a request from a friend about more actions scenes. Hopefully I did some justice with them, although the big ones will be toward the end of this story.
> 
> Love all my readers!
> 
> <3


	11. The Broken Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll (hopefully) be getting a beta soon and can update on a schedule.  
> I'm thinking at least every Sunday. But, for now, here's another scattered update.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Wood pieces were flying everywhere. They consumed Arthur’s vision. _So much for getting out of here undetected._ Dodging the brunt of the door fragments, Arthur once again instinctively reached for his weapon. Feeling the .22 and not his Glock, Arthur instead rummaged through the depths of Eames’ suit jacket. Arthur felt something warm pulling at the back of his shirt, but he ignored it once more, managing to grab a handgun before the door was completely obliterated.

It all happened in a second. The man burst through the entryway, and Arthur steadied his gun, taking aim. _I can handle one man_ , Arthur thought fleetingly. Then he saw the bullet proof vest, SWAT helmet, and the AK-47. Full tactical gear. _Never mind, we’re screwed._

Shoving his hand into his pocket, Arthur grabbed the black detonation box and pulled it out. Thumbing the control labeled “FRONT DOORWAY”, Arthur tried to make eye contact with Eames across the room. If they were going to die, Arthur preferred it to be on their own terms.

But Eames wasn’t looking at Arthur. He stood frozen in place. He had traded his kitchen knife for a  raised gun, Arthur’s Glock. His head was cocked to the side, and the firearm was slowly lowering from its position in his hand.

Arthur’s pose was similarly still, except his stance was situated more for a last stand than surrendering, as Eames’ response suggested. _Eames, what the hell are you doing?_

“Bloody hell, Eames.” A muffled voice, decidedly British, sounded behind the tactical helmet. “This is not the scene I was expecting. Less like _Independence Day_ and more like a bad night at the pub.” The man shouldered his AK-47, freeing his gloved hands. In the charged silence following his pronouncement, the man removed his helmet.

Brown curls sprang free of their confines, and the man immediately leveled his gaze at Arthur, evaluating, pulling the strapped AK-47 off his back once more. “There must be something I’m missing here, Eames. Because if this man is the threat you rang me for, either he’s invincible or you’ve gone soft.” The man looked around, noticing the tied captive. “It looks like you’ve stopped one. Why not another?”

“No, no, no.” Eames was hurried but reassuring. He gestured towards Arthur to lower his weapon. “The queen didn’t forget the parking brake today, David.” Arthur’s brain processed Eames’ statement and its odd wording. _Definitely some kind of code_ , he decided. “David, this is Arthur,” Eames waved towards Arthur, continuing, like they had all just bumped into each other in a coffee shop. The man tied to the floor followed Eames’ gesture as well. He hadn’t spoken during the whole exchange, but at the mention of Arthur’s name, glared towards him.

Switching his attention once Eames mentioned his name, Arthur regarded the other man, _David,_  guardedly. Arthur’s handgun was still firmly aimed at the man’s torso. David returned the inspection with renewed interest, looking over Arthur’s figure critically. “You’re Arthur.” David said finally, making the statement sound more like a question than a fact. He seemed oblivious to the person-shaped hole he had left in the door, leaving the occupants exposed to the street as he moved further in the café. “I thought you would be… taller, mate,” David said, eyeing Arthur up and down. His head swung back over to Eames. “This is the same one that has saved your arse numerous times, correct?”

Eames looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I’ve helped him a fair bit too, David. The man did get shot last week. That’s why I’m in this bloody mess – he royally pissed off a client and we came for answers. Speaking of which – why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” David sidestepped around the three men, examining the scene. He picked up a fallen coffee pot, setting it back on the counter. “Didn’t you send the SOS?” He questioned, slinging the automatic rifle over his shoulder again. He bent down, retrieving Eames’ Heckler & Koch from where it had fallen between a table leg and the floor.

“SOS?” Eames inquired, puzzled.

“Eddie sent the signal,” Arthur interjected, speaking for the first time. He holstered his gun resignedly, realizing that he wasn't going to receive the green light to shoot this armed man in the near future. _Pity._  “He’s in the stock room somewhere. Panicked, almost tried to shoot me with this,” Arthur said to Eames, gesturing to the .22 caught between waistband.

“Tried to shoot you? How is it I didn’t notice this?” Eames asked, frustrated. At the beginning of Arthur’s reply, Eames held a finger up. He shoved the Glock away to stuff a napkin into the tied man’s mouth, as he had begun opening it to interrupt. Appeased, Eames then scooped the knife off the floor, waving it threateningly in front of the man’s face before standing back up fully, returning to the conversation.

At this point, David placed the AK-47 on a nearby table, still walking around. Arthur moved as well, following a few paces behind him distrustfully. Moving into the hallway where the bathroom was located, David slid away the chair Arthur had propped up against the handle. He then swung the door open wide, revealing a bound and very pissed off woman. “Hello, there, sweetheart,” David said, snatching back his grip on the door handle in mild surprise.

“And how did I miss that?!” Eames exclaimed, his voice rising higher as he took in the gagged woman.

“You were fighting,” Arthur explained reasonably, moving in front of David to drag the woman out. “Let’s continue this conversation somewhere else,” Arthur said, handing the rifle back to David, while noticing disapprovingly that the safety was off. “I hardly think we can just stroll out, now that your friend, Mr. Eames, broke through the door so _inconspicuously_.”

“Actually,” David began, “I think we can do just that, mate.” He started moving again, heading farther back into the shop - where Eddie was hiding.

Arthur ignored David’s nonsensical comment. He dropped the woman next to her bound partner by the front door, but out of view. Arthur gestured for Eames to follow him in tailing David back to where Eddie was.

“Let me tie her up for transport first, Arthur,” Eames said. “I’ll meet you back there. As much as it pains me to say it, don’t let David kill Eddie. We’re in enough of a mess as it is.” Arthur nodded his affirmative, already moving towards David’s retreating back. _Eddie doesn’t deserve any worse of a day,_ Arthur thought, _no matter how much  I wanted to kill him for that SOS call._

Jogging back, Arthur burst into the cramped stock room behind David. He took in Eddie’s raised hands and shaking body in the corner. “You look ready to piss yourself,” David remarked, jerking his hand in a movement that commanded Eddie to stand up. “I take it that you’re the scared shitless owner that placed the unnecessary SOS call?”

Arthur pushed past David, grabbing one of Eddie’s hands. He unceremoniously hauled him to his feet, saying, “Let’s go out here, Eddie.” Arthur tried to project a sense of safety to the jittery barista, keeping his body between him and David. Eventually, the three of them made their way back into the main room, where the tied man was furiously trying to wrestle free of his knots. The woman, on the other hand, sat wearily, staring dully at the floor as Eames tied her feet together.

Arthur guided Eddie back to one of the bar stools, finding one not saturated with spilled coffee. “What were you saying about being ‘undetected’?” Arthur asked David skeptically. David was lounging insouciantly at one of the tables by the shuttered windows, his feet propped up on the wood. He had his gun in his lap, and was polishing a knife from his combat belt absentmindedly with the edge of his shirt.

“Eames and I made a pact years ago, to help each other if the need ever arose,” David said, not looking up from his grip on his black shirt. “So, I _acquired_ , you could say, these radios for us to communicate. But a few months ago, some Asian man approached me saying he was Eames’ friend. He knew that we had a deal going on.” Eames moved from his spot on the floor to lean against the coffee shop counter, right next to where Arthur stood. “Apparently this bloke owed you something good, Eames, he claimed you did a job for him. But he gave me his business card, and said to call him if I ever found out you needed help.”

“Saito,” Arthur breathed to Eames.

“So,” David continued, slipping his newly polished knife back into his belt. “I called him after receiving the SOS, when I was looking for a cabbie to get me over here, quick. I had barely spit out a few words about the situation before this posh-looking car came screeching to a stop in front of me. He already knew where you were, it seemed, and dropped me off a block from here.” Arthur shook his head in amazement at Saito’s influence. It seemed the man was inescapable. _Although I never imagined he would be keeping tabs on us like that_ , Arthur thought, puzzled. _I didn’t think the man cared about anything but the success of his business ventures._

“But how could he get us all out of here without being arrested, David?” Eames asked. “That man never does anything by halves, but I doubt he can magically fly us out of here.”

“No,” Arthur said, catching on to where David’s tale was heading. “But I bet he _can_ bribe enough people to erase security footage, and maybe even afford a decent cleanup crew.” David shot an approving sort of frown Arthur’s way.

“Not bad,” David said, impressed, swinging his black boots to the floor with a _clunk_. “He said he could take care of the mess, although Eames would owe him, whatever that means.” David rose from his seat, placing two hands on the back of his utility belt, stretching out his back. “I’ll grab my helmet, and one of you can swing the vehicle around to the back entrance. If any bystander sees anything, I have a license to be an Authorised Firearms Officer. I can say our two _friends_ are terrorists. As long as no one gets too close, they won’t see that it’s forged.”

“I assumed Saito said he would handle the police, as well?” Arthur asked, walking over to help Eames tie the man’s legs, and release him from the beam.

“Something like that,” David said, slipping his visored helmet back on. “Do we need to take care of him?” David asked, jerking one gloved hand towards Eddie. “Or can he be paid off?”

Arthur, under no illusions about what ‘taken care of’ meant, quickly said, “He’ll be fine,” before Eddie could stutter anything out.

Are you positive we can we trust this guy?” Arthur said quietly to Eames, both of them still bent over the man. “He seems… unpredictable.”

“I’m sure,” Eames stated quietly, climbing back to his feet. And then, louder, “We’re ready, David. I’ll get the car. It’ll take a few minutes with traffic, so stand by the door and look official,” Eames directed. With one last nod at Arthur, Eames then slipped out of the broken front door, keys in hand. David followed behind him, stopping to stand in front of the hole, back to the outside.

Arthur treaded over to swipe Eames’ suit jacket off the floor, wincing as he did so. David noticed, glancing over from his place by the entryway. “When were you going to let Eames know that your stitches tore?” He questioned, fingering his rifle.

Arthur’s eyebrow rose, and Eddie gasped behind him, obviously noticing for the first time the way Arthur’s shirt stuck to his back in reddened clumps. Arthur, unruffled, looked appraisingly at the combat-ready man. He had made the realization only seconds before the comment. “You’re more observant than you seem,” Arthur said neutrally, slipping the suit jacket on.

“I don’t know whether that was a compliment or not, but I’ll take it,” David replied. “I can see why Eames works with you - he likes the ones with staying power.” Arthur chose not to reply, walking back over to the bar stools.

“I’m sure our friend will be over soon to clean all of this up,” Arthur began to Eddie, gesturing towards the mess that the café had become. “But we’re taking you at your word that you won’t mention any of this. We really can’t have this getting out.” Eddie began to nod frantically in agreement. “And if it does - ” Here Arthur paused, his tone turning more professional, steely. “ – you really don’t want to see me again.”

“I – I understand, Arthur.” Eddie was still in shock, but managed to speak.

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder lightly, now hyper aware of the strain in his shoulders. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t have met in separate circumstances,” Arthur said truthfully, slipping away from Eddie. “I need to go into the bathroom for a minute,” Arthur called to David. “Try not to kill any civilians while I’m gone.”

Arthur walked over to the stock room collecting the things he needed before heading into the toilets, flicking the light on. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu crashed over Arthur. He sighed, shrugging out of his jacket. Peeling off the white dress shirt, Arthur noted the way the sleeve clung to his left arm, the fabric still damp with brown coffee stains. His skin was still overly pink and tender underneath, evidence of a first-degree burn.

Not bothering to catalog the extent of the damage re-inflicted to his back, Arthur slapped a white pad over the wound, before winding gauze around it. _Good for now_ , he thought, and reluctantly buttoned up his dirty shirt before slipping back on the suit jacket.

Going back into the hallway, Arthur saw that David had dragged both captives to the back of the shop, near the rear door. “Eames should be here any minute,” David said, as though Arthur had never left the vicinity.

“I’ll go check,” Arthur volunteered. He went to the rear door and pushed it open, surprised at how heavy the plain grey metal was.

Arthur poked his head outside, gazing around. Behind the café was an alley that ran the entire block of shops, with dumpsters and trash bags scattered around the wet ground. The backs of the buildings were plain, except for the occasional fire escape. No windows were apparent, oddly enough. Arthur judged that there was definitely enough space to drive the Land Rover through. Satisfied, Arthur was about to swing his head back in, but noticed something black protruding from the adjacent rooftop. Squinting, Arthur tilted his head up to better assess the mysterious cylindrical object. He barely managed to jerk his body back in reflex when heard the telltale _pop_. “Shit!” Arthur said, the door banging shut in front of him.

“Was that gunfire?” David asked, springing forward, AK-47 in hand.

“Yes,” said Arthur, surprisingly calm for someone who had just come this close to being shot. _Again._ “Our captives apparently have some friends left over, one being a sniper on the rooftop.”

“This man really wants you dead, yeah?” David asked rhetorically, moving next to the captives. “Let’s just ask - ”

“What?” Arthur asked, coming over to join him. He stopped as soon as he saw the reason for the interruption.

The men stood in silence side by side, Arthur in his weathered suit and David in his combat gear, staring down at their male captive. He was slumped against the wall. The bullet meant for Arthur had barreled farther into the shop after missing its intended target, only to be blocked by another obstacle – their hostage. Who was now bleeding out onto the tiled floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG I JUST WANT TO SAY - OVER 20 BOOKMARKS!  
> I'm so excited with the reception so far, I can't believe how many people have taken an interest in my little brainchild.
> 
> More plot established in this update, although the good stuff is yet to come. ;)  
> I've been so pleased with all the comments I've been receiving, although more is always appreciated (hint hint, wink wink)!
> 
> Next update's another long one, and will clear up many of the loose threads we have going on around here.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> <3


	12. Dream A Little Bigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur thinks out of the box, David plays sniper, Eddie is a badass, and Eames is a little miffed with Arthur.
> 
> Well, who am I kidding, they're all pretty badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone recommended it, so I made a tumblr -
> 
> Same as my username - [randombitsofstars](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randombitsofstars)  
> Leave me prompts, asks, whatever you do there. I'm afraid that I'm quite clueless when it comes to that site.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

The act of observing - a tic, a trigger. It was an old habit from his time in the military. Or maybe from being a point man for so long. He didn’t really know.  He observed everything,  and it saved his life on many occasion, this being one of them. If he hadn’t paid attention today, Arthur would be the one bleeding out onto the cold floor.

“Well, fuck me in the arse.” In just one sentence, David summed up how Arthur felt about their current situation.

They stared at the ragged hole marring the front of the nameless man’s shirt. The fabric was quickly becoming saturated, turning ominously dark with blood. Arthur was the first to react, lurching away suddenly, trying to find something with which he could put pressure on the wound. Jogging back with an apron in hand, Arthur watched David swiftly cut off the man’s shirt with his newly polished  knife.

As soon as the cloth was completely removed, Arthur knelt down. He paused with the apron in hand, not yet applying pressure. “That’s tough luck, mate,” David remarked. Arthur was inclined to agree with him. The bullet had penetrated a little off the middle of the man’s torso, near his left pectoral. And unlike Arthur’s injury, which had been situated high enough for repair; this man’s wound was deeper – centimeters from his heart.

“He’s going to be dead before we get into the car,” Arthur said, disappointed. He stood back up, apron forgotten on the ground. Even Arthur, who understood just how important this man could be to the operation, knew a lost cause when he saw one.  “We’ll leave him here,” Arthur decided, moving away from the man. Out of courtesy, he dragged the woman out from behind the other captive. Arthur might be cold, but he wasn’t oblivious. He wouldn’t fancy being bled on by a mortally wounded comrade.

“How important is this man to your operation?” Arthur demanded, ripping the gag out of the woman’s mouth. He needed to know fast - they could theoretically bring the man and pretend to have him alive. If he was important, that is.

The woman coughed violently once the cloth was torn from her mouth. She continued to hack for a few more seconds, choking on her suddenly unobstructed airway. David shifted impatiently next to Arthur, obviously thinking about the threat waiting just on the other side of the metal door. “Well?” David commanded, nudging her with his AK-47. “Tell us what you know!”

“Geeve me a second, alvight?” She protested. Finally, her body stopped shaking. “I’ve already told vou, I haf nothing to tell you. I’m not vith dis man,” the woman spat, jerking her head towards the other bleeding captive. “I am Hans’ vife and I can tell you - ” Arthur had heard enough. He didn’t have time for this, for people to try to manipulate his emotions by bringing his dead coworker into this.

Bending down once more, Arthur roughly stuffed the gag back into the woman’s mouth. He stood still next to David, quickly brainstorming options in his head. Nothing was looking good. _Alright. Breathe. If I was in the car, how would Eames plan to get my attention?_

“Alright, you know London better than me,” Arthur said to David, ignoring the woman’s muffled protests through her gag. “How long would it take Eames to maneuver down the street, up the main route, and loop back into this alley?”

“Well,” David began. “It’s a right pain to get through these narrow touristy roads on a weekend like this, and this street is right near that art gallery. You know the one, that place all of the pretentious blokes go to in their spare time?” Arthur stared at him in silence, urging him to get to the point. David, continued, unhurried, “Maybe fifteen minutes? Twenty, about, if South Street has all of those damn hawkers - which I assume they do, seeing as how it’s prime time for the tourists.”

Arthur tried to calculate how much time they’d wasted already, just standing here. “Hypothetically, if one of us tried to catch up with him, do you think we could stop Eames before he drives into the alley? Which is a one-way death trap, considering the sniper.”

“I don’t see how your car could go faster than his in this traffic,” David answered, puzzled. “On top of that, mate, you’d have to be mental to leave this shop after all this racket we’ve made.”

Arthur was already moving by the time David finished, taking out the detonation remote from his pants pocket. He slipped it into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “We need to get to the front of the shop,” Arthur said abruptly, motioning for David to bring the woman.“Let’s go.” Without waiting to see if David was following, Arthur turned and walked away.

Eddie was bent over cleaning the counter as Arthur came back into the front of the shop. He looked up in surprise at Arthur’s return. “I thought you were leaving, Ar - ”

“Not now Eddie,” Arthur said, cutting him off brusquely. “Do you have alcohol in here? Some extra oil for the burners, maybe?”

Eddie stared at Arthur for a moment, nonplussed.

“I have extra petrol in case I ever needed it,” Eddie replied slowly, after a moment. His gaze shifted over Arthur’s shoulder as David came back in, dragging the woman with him. “Is there something wrong? Where’s the other bloke your boyfriend tied up?” Arthur didn’t bother correcting Eddie about his ‘boyfriend’. He was too focused on the mention of petrol.

_What is Eames to me, anyways? I definitely can’t call him just a colleague anymore… he saw me in my boxer briefs. Ugh. Focus._

“Where’s the petrol, Eddie?” Arthur demanded.

“Right in the stockroom, by the door. Why - ” But Arthur was already gone, striding into the back. _Thirteen minutes left to get Eames’ attention -  at most._ He ducked into the other part of building, sidestepping the expanding pool that was forming around the slumped man on the floor.

Scooping up the canister from the edge of the stock room, Arthur  jogged back to the front of the store. Spying a small refrigerator, Arthur swung open the door, taking two glasses of Coca-Cola out. Twisting both caps off, he impatiently turned the drinks upside down. The fizzy liquid splashed out onto the floor. “What are you - ” Eddie began again, but this time was shushed by David, who was watching Arthur with keen contemplation.

Arthur placed the now-empty bottles onto one of the few café table left undamaged. He could feel three sets of eyes on him as he left once more, knocking open the door to the toilets.

 _Now, where’s that handgun Eames mentioned?_ Arthur felt the edges of the mirror, his fingers skating over the cool walls. One of his nails caught on something near the bottom, and he stopped, his healing left hand closing around a familiar grip. Tugging, his searches revealed the hidden silenced firearm. _I’m glad Eames apparently has some foresight._

Arthur had accidentally opened the hinged back of the mirror while removing the handgun. A label caught Arthur’s eye. _Finally, some luck._  Arthur snatched the bottle labeled ‘Rubbing Alcohol’ off the shelf, leaving the mirror open as he paced back into the main room.

“Here,” Arthur called mid-stride, tossing the firearm into the air. David caught the weapon out of its smooth arc, twirling it experimentally while examining the silencer.

“Thanks, mate,” David said, slinging his AK-47 over his shoulder once more.

 _Twelve minutes_ , Arthur thought, edgy. He opened the can of petrol, pouring some into the Coca-Cola glasses. Stopping when the bottles were three quarters full, Arthur came over next to Eddie, snatching his apron from off the counter. “I’ll repay this too,” Arthur said apologetically over his shoulder, gesturing impatiently for David’s knife. Distractedly, David handed the weapon over, preoccupied by his new handgun.

Arthur made quick work of tearing the apron into shreds, stuffing the pieces into the necks of the bottles. Satisfied with his handiwork, Arthur poured rest of the rubbing alcohol onto the strips. He handed the knife hilt-first back to David, reaching into Eames’ suit jacket. Arthur felt the outline of a lighter, in the same place where he had felt it earlier. _Eames, if I survive this, I might actually admit to you that you’re not as dumb as I thought._

“This is how it’s going to go,” Arthur began, spinning to face David.“I expect a few people waiting outside for us, friendly or not - on foot, in vehicles, you name it. I assume they let Eames go because he’s not the man they’re after – which is me. Or maybe they did catch him and he’s being tortured in the back of a car right now.

“I hope not. Regardless, when I go out the front door -” here Eddie made a noise of complaint, and David uttered a grunt of disapproval, “– there are going to be people after me. Hopefully going for kidnapping, not murder, but we don’t know. That’s why we’re going to distract them.” Arthur reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the remote. He nodded towards David. “You’re going to cover me as I go out the front. Knowing Colin, he paid top dollar for a man on top of the building.

“I saw a motorcycle parked next to this shop as we came in, and the glare at the bottom of those curtains -” Arthur jerked his jaw towards the blinds on his right, “– suggests it’s still there. It’s going to take time to hot wire it. So to buy that time and make a distraction, and hopefully signal Eames to circle the block - ” Arthur held up the blast remote, his finger hovering over ‘BACK DOORWAY’, “ - we’re blowing up the café.”

Eddie slumped to the floor, head in his hands.

David grinned. “You’re bloody mental, mate.”

“No,” said Arthur, snatching up the two bottles in one hand. “I was once told by someone that I need to dream a little bigger.” _Time to ignite some Molotov cocktails._ “I’m just following their advice.”

 

***

 

Eleven minutes.

That's all Arthur estimated he had before Eames would arrive at the alley behind the shop. If Eames went back there, he would be dead, killed by the sniper. And if Eames died, as far as Arthur was concerned, that meant they were all screwed too. _Not to mention I would feel guilty for dragging him into all of this… Please_ _notice something’s wrong, Eames_.

Feeling the time slipping away, Arthur quickly explained his plan to David. Eddie listened in the background, messy counter forgotten.

Against Arthur’s original plan, Eddie piped up, volunteering to go outside first. He claimed that he would be less inconspicuous than David going to scout - and while Arthur couldn't disagree with that, he harbored doubts about the safety of that plan. Jansen’s men would hurt anyone to get to Arthur.

Arthur told Eddie as much. Against Arthur’s hopes, it just seemed to rile the blond-haired man up even more.

“You've gotten me into this whole mess, Arthur,” Eddie argued, running his hand through his undercut agitatedly. “I'm stuck. And while I'm not a huge fan of the company you keep, I'm still convinced that you're an alright sort of bloke.” Eddie stepped closer to Arthur, who was not persuaded. “If I can use the excuse of taking out the rubbish to look for snipers, I want to bloody do it.” Eddie crossed his arms defensively in front of him, point made. Arthur back gave a sympathetic twinge of pain looking at the motion.

 _Nothing good ever happens when we stray from the plan._ “Fine.” Arthur snapped. “We don't have the time to argue. Here, Eddie.” Arthur shoved the trash bin at him from behind the counter, as well as a comms unit he had found in Eames’ jacket. Arthur had the matching one in his ear. The situation felt eerily similar to the CurrencyCorp job to Arthur - except nothing like it at all. _I’m trusting an unarmed, untrained, ignorant civilian with espionage tech, in front of assassins no less. If only Eames could see me now._

“Time to go outside,” Arthur said briskly. “David, at my signal, get on the roof. I’ll be climbing out the side window now, and you’ll follow after me.”

And that was it.

Broken bits of glass tinkling, Eddie was whistling a surprisingly cheerful tune as he ducked out the destroyed front door. By the time both of his legs had reached through the other side of the hole, no living person was left in his café.

Arthur and David had already dragged themselves out a window at the back of the stock room, previously covered by boxes of styrofoam cups. David levered their captive out after them, cutting the bonds off her legs and hands. He looked at her. “Any funny business and I strangle you with Arthur’s tie,” David muttered. “Good luck mate,” he whispered, turning to Arthur, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. Arthur flinched in pain. “Sorry,” David hissed, retracting his hand quickly. With a final wave, David began his ascent of the fire escape, handgun pointed at the woman in front of him. Arthur rubbed his shoulder as he watched them leave.

As soon as David began the climb, Arthur started counting in his head. _1,2,3,4…_ it would take them another two minutes to get on the roof and toward the front - far enough to be out of the blast zone. _8 minutes until Eames reaches the alley._ Arthur was quickly running out of time. _24, 25, 26…_

“‘Ello. Wh-what am I doing?  Carrying the rubbish out, that’s all.” Arthur jumped a little as Eddie’s voice suddenly sounded in his ear, too loud and very nervous. _Shit. Who's talking to Eddie now?_

Arthur inched forward in the narrow alley that bracketed Eddie's café and a bookstore. Arthur could faintly hear another voice in his earpiece, too far away from Eddie’s microphone to be decipherable. “There was a break in this morning,” Eddie was saying. “No, the perpetrators left before I could do anything. They were fighting over - ”

And that was when Arthur pressed the button.

The horrendously loud sound of shattering brick, mortar and glass penetrated the normal atmosphere of the London side street. The explosion’s blast flung Arthur’s body forward like he was made of paper. He landed hard on his chest and knees, arms flung out in front of him to preserve the petrol-filled bottles. Arthur's ears were ringing, his head pounding. He rose unsteadily to his feet, clumps of cement falling off the back his suit jacket. Creeping forward to the edge of the alley, Arthur could distantly hear cars beginning to honk. _I hope Eames noticed that_. Nearing the edge of the buildings, Arthur paused to spit some blood that had pooled in his mouth, an aftereffect of biting his tongue during the explosion. His only link to Eddie, the comms unit, had been ripped off his ear. It lay in the debris underneath Arthur’s feet, cracked, broken - useless.

 _I hope everyone’s in position,_ Arthur thought. He pulled out his gun, keeping it concealed under the tattered suit jacket. And then stepped out into the sunlight.

 

***

 

It was chaos.

At the very least, chaos for London.

Cars were stopped everywhere, passengers and drivers alike searching for the source of the explosion from the interior of their vehicles.

Standing at the lip of the alley, Arthur quickly noticed three things.

First, that Eddie was lingering by the trash on the other side of his shop- but not by choice. An intimidating man in an ill-fitting black suit was physically caging him in.

Second, Arthur could see the gawkers pointing up at Eddie’s roof, presumably at someone. By their expressions, Arthur’s guess was that it was David, looking official and menacing in his combat gear. _Well, I can only hope._

And, lastly, that Arthur could see other people, dressed in similar black professional clothing. He picked out at least five people looking a tad too alert, scanning their surroundings intensely as they walked along the shops. No one had seen Arthur yet - but it was only a matter of time.

_Alright, Eddie. You just need to distract him a little longer. David will bail you out… hopefully._

Arthur switched his gaze back to the curb in front of him, where, just as he predicted, a motorcycle was still parked. It gleamed an obnoxiously bright in the afternoon light.

Arthur strode fully out of the alley, keeping his head down, posture unassuming, even with the two Molotov cocktails swinging in one hand, the other cradling his gun inside his jacket. Miraculously, Arthur made it over to the red bike without any unwanted attention. He swung his leg over the leather seat, feeling tightness in the back of his shirt, the motion pulling at dried blood.

Slipping his hand off his gun, Arthur leaned forward to look at the motorcycle in front of him. He pried off the ignition cover, glancing up as he did so. The man talking to Eddie was suitably occupied, but one of the other men in black suits was making a pass back toward Arthur. _Shit._

Rapidly separating two red wires from the rest, Arthur disconnected the cables. Careful not to touch the ends of the bare wire, Arthur stripped them with a lockpick from his jacket. The man walking was seconds away. Locating the brown starter wire, Arthur felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He stripped it in the same manner as the other two. Glancing up once more, Arthur saw the second man stop next to the first, interrogating Eddie.

Eddie, to his credit, kept a poker face as he spied Arthur over his shoulder. He motioned broadly back to his shop, drawing the men in.

A muffled crack sounded from roof, followed by a louder pop. The two men looked away from Eddie, their heads snapping up, but  Arthur did the opposite, focusing more intensely on his task. _That must be_ _David - shooting at someone with the silenced gun._

Wires completely bare, Arthur took the lighter out of his pocket. _Here we go._ Striking the wires together, a spark flew off, followed by the roar of the motorcycle’s engine as it came to life. Arthur revved the engine, keeping it going.

At the sound of the gunshots, the men had completely disregarded Eddie, looking for a way to scale the building. They jumped at the sound of the motorcycle’s engine. “Fuck!” Arthur read one of their lips over the noise of the engine. “There he is!”

 _I’m going to die,_ Arthur thought suddenly. _They’re professionals - they’re not going to miss at this distance._ Arthur moved his lighter under the cloth of one of the two bottles, but knew in his gut that he wouldn’t be able to ignite them before he was shot.

Just as he was about to flick the lighter, accepting death, Eddie suddenly sprinted at the men, tackling from behind their unsuspecting forms. “GET AWAY, EDDIE!” Arthur shouted over the roar of the engine, his bottle aflame. Eddie barely managed to roll away from the scrambling men before the bottle left Arthur’s hand, exploding on impact. Arthur didn’t stick around to watch the cocktail hit its targets, gunning around a stationary Volvo.

The occupants, who had stopped to gape at the previous explosion, screamed as the Molotov cocktail hit, engulfing the men in a blazing inferno.

Arthur punched the gas once more, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic as the remaining bunch of Jansen’s men yelled to each other. Another person, this time a man holding a Glock, fell to the ground as a shot echoed from the roof. A man took aim at Arthur, the barrel of his gun aimed for his chest. Arthur weaved, and the bullet narrowly missed his thigh, embedding itself into the metal frame of the bike. _Please don’t hit the gas tank,_ Arthur thought feverently. _I think I’d rather get shot again then die in an explosion._

He kept his body as flat as he could, trying to become a harder target for the marksmen. More gunshots sounded from above. _Hopefully that’s David and not someone else. _Arthur guided the motorcycle across the lane of oncoming traffic, and  jumped it onto the opposite sidewalk, sparks flying.__

A _ping_ sounded next to Arthur as a bullet ricocheted off a metal post next to him. He looked back, and saw the woman in black who had fired the shot. Still driving on the pavement, Arthur turned backwards on the bike, safety be damned. The woman fired again, blowing off a piece of the handlebar, centimeters from where Arthur's hand rested. Arthur aimed back at her and squeezed the trigger. The woman stumbled backwards as the bullet clipped her side.

Whipping back around, Arthur corrected his steering, narrowly avoiding a shrieking pedestrian in the process. He had reached the end of the sidewalk, bouncing off the curb and back into traffic. Cars honked angrily as Arthur accelerated once more. A gunshot sounded from behind him, close once again, and Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see a black vehicle four cars behind him, the passenger aiming a handgun out the window. _Great._  Arthur turned around to lose the car, and realized that the road was huge, spanning three lanes. Gridlock was everywhere.

Bracketing the traffic was a throng of vendors and tourists alike, the noise of humanity overpowering. Arthur cut across two lanes, and then past a cab. The driver laid on his horn.   _I’m never going to find Eames like this._ Arthur zigzagged ahead through as many vehicles as he could, clipping someone’s side mirror in the process. A policeman blew his whistle from his place at the next traffic light, running towards Arthur.

The light was changing, but Arthur carved around the corner anyway, the sleek bike tipping near horizontal to the ground. Making a quick decision, Arthur shouted a warning as he revved the bike back over the curb. He came to a screeching halt, startling a family of American tourists. “What the hell are you doing?!” the man in a baseball cap screamed.

Arthur unholstered his gun to check for his tail, and the man backed up, pulling at the back of the boy’s shirt in front of him.

“Have the bike,” Arthur offered graciously, throwing the motorcycle to the ground. He pushed past the frozen family, unlit Molotov cocktail in his other hand.

Thrusting himself into the crowd of people in front of him, Arthur twisted in between pedestrians, straining for a glimpse of the black car that had been tailing him.

He seemed to be alone.

Arthur had set up a rendezvous point a few streets away for David. He hoped the man managed to get out with their captive, and that the surviving hired guns either went after Arthur or were killed. _There can’t be an infinite number of them... right?_

Walking up to another curb, Arthur realized he was parallel to the alley behind Eddie’s shop. It was on his right, and as far as he could tell, unoccupied. The sniper was nowhere to be found on the roof. _Now where’s Eames?_ Arthur twisted around, scanning the sea of traffic. A horn blared to his left, and Arthur instinctively raised his gun.

A pair of elderly women gasped in front of Arthur, scuttling backwards. One of them dropped her handbag in surprise.

“Darling? What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Eames was leaning out the window, sporting his trademark smirk. His expression slipped as he spotted Arthur’s gun. Arthur pushed past more tourists, watching them frantically dial 999. _Great, now the police will be after us as well._

Arthur slid in next to the Eames, shutting the door behind him. “We need to go, now,” he said. “Do you have more bullets?”

“In the glove box,” Eames said, shifting the car into gear. “I parked over here after I saw the explosion in the alley. I had my suspicions, and they were confirmed when a man hurried out of there, carrying a rifle.” At Arthur’s look, Eames continued, “No, Arthur, I didn’t get to question him. He ran like a bat out of hell. I assume you have a tail?”

“A black BMW, I think. I lost them minutes ago on a motorcycle, and the police are going to swarm this place any minute, Saito’s influence aside. We need to get to the rendezvous point, find David.”

“Alright,” Eames said, executing a sloppy U-turn. “We’ll take the back way. Jansen may be a rich little wanker, but he doesn’t know this city like I do.”

 

***

 

Arthur had to admit, he and Eames made a good team. En route to the rendezvous point, the black BMW managed to find them again. Eames cursed, because it meant they would have to ditch the Land Rover. Looking over at Arthur, he said simply, “Let’s give them hell.” Arthur rolled into the backseat, bringing the AR-15 out of its duffel bag. He handed Eames the last Molotov cocktail, along with Eames’ jacket, directing him to the lighter. “You’ve been busy while I was gone, love,” Eames remarked. Arthur ducked as a bullet shattered the back window. Glass fragments rained over his body, coating his injured back. _Fantastic._

Eames grunted unhappily. “Ready, darling?” He eased up on the gas, coasting next to the other car.

Arthur was ready. Not wasting a second, he pulled the trigger, shattering his own window, and then the windows of the other vehicle. The gun continued to rapid fire, and Arthur ducked under the sill as he heard bullets fly back in response. Soon, it was quiet, and Eames accelerated once more. Metal crunched loudly into a building behind them.

“You’re unhurt?” Arthur asked Eames, shoving the automatic rifle back into the bag. Glass clattered everywhere around him, littering the back of the car. Arthur shuddered to think of what the exterior of the Land Rover looked like.  _Riddled with bullet holes, probably._

“As always, darling,” Eames said in response. “I am a little pissed I didn’t get to use - ” Eames cut off as Arthur was sliding back into the front seat. Eames stopped him, a hand on his back. Arthur flinched away involuntarily. “When did this happen?” Eames asked severely, motioning angrily towards Arthur’s bloody back, evidence of his torn stitches.

“We need to leave this car,” Arthur said in response, beginning to wipe fingerprints off the dashboard with the suit jacket. “Otherwise the MI6 will find my other identity for the U.K.”

Eames sighed, pulling the car over to the side of the street. “We’re talking about this. But right now, I’m going to use this Molotov to blow up my auto.”

 

***

  
Idling by the pavement in a stolen Ford Fiesta, Arthur fidgeted next to Eames as they waited at the rendezvous point. Eames, being the petty friend that he was, was giving Arthur the silent treatment. He was annoyed that Arthur hadn’t mentioned the resurfaced injury earlier.

Looking tattered and tired, David finally stepped out of the shadows, the dark-skinned woman walking next to him. She stepped into the back of the vehicle first, quickly followed by David, who let out a huge sigh as he slid into the interior.

Eames barely waited until David had most of his body inside, peeling away from the pavement. “Where are her bonds?” Eames snapped unhappily, staring into the rear view mirror. “Last time I checked, David, we usually hold our prisoners at gunpoint.”

David was taking off his bulletproof vest, almost elbowing the woman across the head in the process. “Who got your knickers in a twist, mate? Cut me a break. She’s fine.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked in a much different tone, tuning in to the conversation. He had been drifting off again, the discomfort from his ripped stitches suddenly acute.

“Look.” David reached forward, shoving a piece of crumpled parchment into Arthur’s lap. “She gave this to me earlier - right, Andrea?” The woman nodded once, her curls a mess, looking exhausted. Some soot and other debris had made its way onto her light-colored coat, turning it grey.

Eames looked over at the note in Arthur’s lap. “Open it, then,” he said to Arthur, jerking the Fiesta around a turn with more force than strictly warranted.

Arthur steadied himself against the window, slowly unfolding the paper, his fingers clumsy. To his surprise, he recognized the barely legible letters as Hans’ looping handwriting, or at least a good forgery of it. Blinking to focus his tired eyes, Arthur tried to decipher the script.

_Arthur,_

_Hallo, mein Freund. If you are reading this, I am dead. Or missing. I_ ~~ _kenne_~~ _know you are a smart man, and you will not believe without proof. But it is hard to talk to you from the_ ~~ _das_~~ _grave. But, be satisfied, Andrea is my wife and I give her this note for you. I am not one to be wasting with words. Listen to her. Don’t shoot Andrea, Arthur, or I will find you._

_You were best point man I ever worked with. A good man, as well._

**_Paulaner_ **

_Hans_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling." - Eames to Arthur, Inception
> 
> Longest chapter so far. Hopefully you didn't fall asleep! I want to say thanks to my Beta, who still hasn't made a profile (what are you waiting for?!)  
> And, of course, everyone who has read thus far.
> 
> For once, I'm actually putting a deadline on something - a new, highly anticipated character will be introduced next chapter! 
> 
> Please leave comments if you feel inclined. I'm always looking for feedback.
> 
> Also, a sidenote: if another chapter isn't posted next Sunday, it's because I've been arrested - between the researching of copious amounts of firearms, how to hot wire a motorcycle, bullet wounds, various explosions, and Molotov cocktails, I'm looking pretty suspect at the moment.


	13. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David cockblocks in this chapter, not going to lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy reading! <3

“So you're really Hans’ wife, then,” Arthur concluded, peering up from the note to look at the woman. He felt hot embarrassment creep up the back of his neck, a reminder of how roughly they had treated her over the past day. The memory of Andrea graciously picking up the thermos flashed through Arthur's mind.   _I didn’t notice her accent back then..._ _Damn, I can’t believe I knocked out Hans’ wife._

“Just like that you're going to trust her?” Eames drawled, skepticism dripping in his tone. “I thought you were more cautious than that, Arthur. Anyone can forge a note, _darling_.”

 _Clearly Eames is still angry with me,_ Arthur thought, puzzled and a little irritated. _I don’t think I’ve heard him say ‘darling’ quite that way before._

Arthur looked over at Eames, walling off his emotions with his usual tactic - condescension. “I know how to do my job, Eames. At the bottom of the note Hans left the name of an obscure beer that we drank - ” _when I drunkenly told him I wished you were our forger_ “ - one night. No one would've have known that particular brand and been able to replicate his handwriting like this. But, just to check - Andrea?” Arthur turned towards the woman in the backseat. David had fallen asleep with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his bulletproof vest squeezed between his leg and the Andrea’s side.

“ _Ja_?” She answered quietly, shifting uncomfortably. Arthur reached back, dragging the offending vest off the seat and onto the floor. David snorted in his sleep, his head lolling in the direction of his window.

“Would you mind telling us about your husband? Just to - just to confirm who you are?” Arthur asked, keeping his tone gentle. He was still feeling the vestiges of guilt left behind from manhandling her.

Andrea cleared her throat, looking surprised at Arthur’s query. While she paused, he took the opportunity to carefully slip Hans’ note into his pants pocket.

“Hans...” She looked up at Arthur. “Vell… he vas vunderful. Very big, strong too, but a nice bear at heart. He alvays cut his hair short, fery short, although I told him it looked beautiful long at our vedding. He vorked with you for avhile, _nicht_?” Arthur nodded solemnly. Tears began to well up Andrea’s eyes. “He could talk - to everyone. He vas a charmer. Hans loved all kinds of beer, as you say, Arthur. But that's not, ehm, how you say - specific enough? Vell… he must have mentioned football to you. Wouldn't miss a Bundesliga match for anyzing.”

 _He mentioned some soccer teams during Jansen’s dream…_ Arthur had his confirmation. He turned to snidely inform Eames, but the man was absorbed elsewhere. He was busy unearthing a crumpled napkin from the depths of his weapon-filled suit jacket. Eames handed it to the crying woman, still driving, and Arthur felt some of his animosity melt away. Andrea accepted the it gratefully, wiping her nose. “Vhere are we going to?” She asked.

“I'd like to know that too,” David proclaimed loudly, suddenly jerking up from his crumpled position by the window. “I need to take a piss right quick. Been sniping bloody assassins on rooftops all day, I think I earned a pint or two of something.”

Eames laughed, throwing his head back, some happiness returning to his stony countenance. “You’re definitely the same bloke I remember in back the service, David. We’ll be there eventually, and you’ll get your pint. In fact…” Arthur’s mind drifted off as Eames continued chattering. He settled back into the passenger seat of the small vehicle, and gazed out of the window at the passing scenery. The clouds reflected the meager sunset staining the sky, turning the horizon a dull pink. Darkness was quickly taking over, encouraging the heaviness in Arthur’s limbs. Arthur leaned over to rest his head on cool glass of the Ford’s window.   _I haven't eaten since breakfast,_ Arthur thought, his mind rewinding. It was hard to believe today was part of the same week that Eames had made tea at the cottage, never mind the same day. _Not exactly following doctor’s orders and resting, am I?_

Arthur drifted for a long time, eventually letting his eyes flutter shut. _I’ll just close them for a few seconds..._

“.... with Arthur.” Arthur stirred at the sound of his name. His eyelids gradually blinked open, and he removed his head gingerly from the window, rolling out a nasty crick in his neck. Turning his head to the left, Arthur’s vision slowly focused, coming to rest upon Eames.

He was talking to someone quietly, his eyes flicking up occasionally to look the in rear view mirror. Arthur lazily looked up to the reflection. He saw David once again slumped in the back, a mark of condensation on the window as he drooled. Andrea was looking much more awake, laughing animatedly as she replied to whatever Eames had just said. _No doubt a joke at my expense,_ Arthur thought wryly.

“We’ll be there in about five minutes,” Eames estimated, turning off onto a much bumpier road. The headlights of the stolen car barely reached a few meters out into the darkness. It seemed they were far away from any of the light that London had to offer. _I must have closed my eyes for longer than I thought_ , Arthur realized unhappily.

“What’s the plan?” Arthur asked Eames, going for a casual. His voice came out hoarse, unused.

Eames turned, leveling a look at Arthur that said _I’m not fooled by your fake attentiveness, darling._ “I was telling Andrea once we get set up at the bed and breakfast, David can give you a lift - back to my cottage. It’s on the way to his flat anyway,” Eames said smoothly.

“Und I vas informing Mister Eames that Hans vorked with a _sicherheit -_ security firm, I mean, een London,” Andrea said from the back, sounding much more confident than earlier. _“_ So, I vill stay und help him at das hotel, while David and you travel back to ze house.”

“I need to get stuff from my flat, mate,” David chimed in, once again snapping miraculously awake. “I'll swing by Eames’ place. It's on the way,” David finished. Everyone seemed satisfied, except for Arthur. _Where was I when they decided to join forces against me?_

“Wait a moment,” Arthur said, sitting up. Something crinkled under his shirt, and he remembered his makeshift bandage. He had slapped it on earlier in the day, but it was probably dirty and wet with blood by now. _I’ll have to fix that. Later, though, when everything is sorted out._  “I still have to call Saito and describe to him the clean up job. With all that went on in London today, there’s going to be a lot of security cameras to erase, not to mention people to be paid off. And who can forget the fact that there’s bodies all around Eddie’s shop - then the fallout for Eddie himself. We don’t even know how the men tailed us to the city, Eames, and there needs to be a profile formulated on - ”

Arthur’s stressed ranting was drowned out by the guffaws of David. He leaned forward in the cramped quarters of the car, suddenly grinning wildly. “You’re exactly the type A kind of bloke that Eames promised you were, aren’t you mate?” David slapped the side of Arthur’s seat. “No one’s going to follow us out here, in the middle of bloody nowhere. And if they do, Arthur, we’ll see them coming.” David began to chortle again, quieter. “I’m pretty sure the only thing around us is mostly those buggerin’ squirrels right now.”

Andrea was a little more sympathetic than David, leaning forward to place a calming hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “We’ll be fine, Arthur. You can make calls and ze plan from Eames’ house.”

Eames tore his gaze away from the road, where he was busy navigating around potholes. “You know they’re right, Arthur. I have plenty of supplies back at the house - you can still be a point man from there. Don’t forget - you promised me you would go back tonight.”

For a minute, the only sound was the whine of the Fiesta’s tiny engine. “It seems everyone is in agreement then,” Arthur said eventually, resigned. “I'll need to know where your laptop is, Eames. I’ll need it to collect background on Jansen’s men.”

“Yes. We’ll talk when we get out of this auto,” Eames replied.

Arthur didn't like how Eames lingered on the word _talk._

 

***

 

The Fiesta pulled up a long dirt driveway, headlights casting their beams onto a white house. Eames claimed the building was to be their hotel.

 _It definitely looks as though it’s seen better days_ , Arthur thought, taking in the aged establishment. A lamp flickered on the front porch, attracting moths, reminding Arthur of the farmhouses from the movies.

Eames, looking the most normal out of the four of them, parked the car before striding up onto the porch. Arthur watched as an older woman answered the door, looking annoyed. Arthur read her lips, and got as far as _‘do you know how late it is’_ before Eames shifted, obscuring his view. They stood by the entryway a moment more, and Arthur could see how the woman’s posture gradually changed, becoming more welcoming, relaxed. Eventually, the woman gestured to the open doorway, and Eames followed her inside, the front door closing behind them.

“How does that wanker do that?” David hissed from the back, whispering for once. Arthur assumed he was referring to the fact that Eames could con anyone into liking him.

“Mr. Eames is no doubt feeding her one of his signature sob stories,” Arthur responded, settling back into the dark interior of the car, content to wait. _Keep talking to David,_ Arthur told himself. _You can’t go back to sleep now._ “He always seems to involve his supposedly dying mother, no matter what country it is. Everyone goes for the dying mother.”

Eventually, Eames reappeared, his hand closed around something. The woman stood at the doorway, waving to him as he slid back into the Ford. Eames waved back, smiling grandly.

Eames shut the driver’s side door and turned over the engine, buckling his seatbelt. His exaggerated grin fell off his face. Taking in his apparent failure, his backseat passengers followed suit, buckling their belts as well. But Arthur looked over at him, confused. Eames raised an eyebrow teasingly, a smirk once again gracing his full lips. “Are you doubting my prowess, darling? Put on your belt. The better guest lodging is in another shack.”

“I got us half the rooms in the other building,” Eames said, making a U-turn to drive down another road. This makeshift path was even bumpier than the last, filled with divots. The jolts woke Arthur up even more, sharp pains coursing through his torso.

Their car bumped down to the end of the trail, and Eames cleared his throat, parking the muddy vehicle in front of a smaller structure. The red paint was flaking, and Arthur snorted as he recognized the house. _It look like we’re staying in a converted barn_ , Arthur thought, amused. “Ey, don’t laugh,” Eames said to Arthur, feigning hurt. “This was the upgrade. I told the owner about my poor ailing mother, who my fiancee and I are going to visit - ” David and Andrea both started laughing, and Arthur had to hide a snicker of his own. “What?” Eames asked petulantly. “I thought it was a good cover.”

“Nothing,” David replied, still sniggering. “What are we doing now that we’re finally here, besides me taking a piss?”

Eames turned off the engine. “Well, I’d skive off again soon, David, as soon as you help me unload all the luggage from the boot. Arthur and Andrea can make up the rooms together, it’ll go faster.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, knowing Eames’ suggestion was an excuse to stop Arthur from exerting himself. But Andrea seemed to have formed an unspoken pact with Eames. Before Arthur knew it, she said, “That is _gut_ , Eames, we vill go,” and he was being pulled from the car. Andrea was muttering something, having commanded a surprisingly tight hold onto his elbow.

“Don't forget to change the license plate, Eames!” Arthur called over his shoulder. He was dragged by Andrea through the darkness, towards the silhouette of the building. _If Andrea pulls any harder on my forearm, I’m going to get yet another bruise._ “Coming, coming,” Arthur said, stumbling after the persistent Andrea.

Andrea already had grabbed the key from Eames, and with some fumbling, managed to open the Masterlock. She removed it from the hinged doorway and twisted the metal bit holding the door, swinging the gate outward. _Very classy,_ Arthur thought sarcastically, taking the lock off the swinging door. He ran his fingers through his dirty hair once more, following Andrea through the entryway.

The room was quiet upon entering, and dark. Arthur supposed barns didn’t usually have many windows. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw Andrea standing in the corner. He moved, ready to help, but was stopped by the sudden influx of light.

“I found ze switch,” Andrea proclaimed unnecessarily. Hanging lamps alighted, illuminating their surroundings. Arthur and Andrea were standing in a large front room filled with couches, a desk, and an ancient TV. Arthur was mildly astonished that electricity reached out here.

Andrea and Arthur momentarily separated to look around. Andrea found the next light switch in the kitchen, and Arthur laid the lock on the counter. Andrea was unnaturally silent when they rejoined in the center of the kitchen. Meeting Arthur’s questioning look, she moved even closer, herding him against the doorframe. She studied him intently. He let her do it, mildly uncomfortable. He could see the splash of freckles that danced across the bridge of her nose, a shade darker than her brown skin, such a contrast to Arthur’s own.

“What is it, Andrea?” He asked uneasily, palms braced against the wood behind him. _Was she going to get revenge for earlier? What if the note was faked? Damn, I would never hear the end of it from Eames…_

“You are stupid,” she declared matter-of-factly, backing away. She shook her head, as though Arthur had disappointed her. Arthur stared dumbly, feeling whiplash at her change in mood. _She was just laughing in the car earlier with Eames! Does she blame me for Hans’ death?_ “Come help me get ze beds ready upzairs,” Andrea said, as though nothing was amiss. She pointed to the rickety steps, moving. Arthur followed her, still flummoxed.

They walked into the first bedroom on the next landing, a small space with pale blue walls. She went over to the unmade bed, taking up one of the sheets that was folded neatly at the end. Taking ahold of it, she shook it out harder than necessary, motioning for Arthur to help. He caught an end of the floating blanket and moved to the opposite side of the mattress. The low tones of Eames and David’s voices echoed as they entered downstairs, dropping something heavy to the floor. Their voices faded as they exited again.

Andrea snapped the sheets, folding them forcefully under her part of the mattress. Arthur mechanically copied her movements, aware of his tender back. The bed making was another ingrained habit from the military, yet as mindless as it was, he couldn’t unpuzzle the tension behind her movements. _Is she angry with me as well?_

“What have I done?” Arthur questioned. He was tired, and his back hurt. Drama never really suited him. _Yet it seems I’ve been receiving more than my fair share, lately._

“You don’t see it,” Andrea said, looking up at Arthur as she layered another blanket. “He looks at you ze way Hans looked at _me_ and - ” She broke off. “You are, how you say, blind? Both of you.”

“Blind to _what_?” Arthur asked, stuffing the blanket into a hospital corner on his side.

Andrea sighed, absentmindedly patting down some of her curls. “You are a good man, Arthur. I am glad dat Hans vorked with you.”

Arthur felt a frisson of déjà vu work through his veins at the praise. _The same phrase that Hans said to me in his note._ “Thanks you, Andrea,” Arthur said slowly. “I only regret I didn't get to know you better, except for the fact that I knocked you unconscious.”

“Do not say talk like that!” Andrea declared passionately, throwing a pillow onto the bed. “You are not dead, or dying. Ve vill speak more in die future, _ja_?”

“Well, but I'm leaving tonight and - ”

“You vill rest and come back, notzing else, alright? No more bullets. Eames told me all about vhat happened on ze way over here.” Andrea walked, stopping in front of Arthur. She looked at him again, but her irritation was replaced with concern. She walked around him once more, the ghost of her fingertips trailing over his blood-stained back.

“When did Eames talk to you without me?” Arthur asked, puzzled. Andrea didn't answer right away, straightening the cuffs on his shirt. Arthur thought it was rather useless, seeing as how one arm was ruined by coffee, but he let her hover anyways.

Andrea rolled her eyes, her curls bouncing with the movement. “You and David vere asleeping almost ze whole ride, Arthur. Eames talked a lot about ze past couple days.”

“I was?” Arthur questioned in surprise, glancing down at Andrea. A lock of hair escaped onto his forehead. “Wait - he talked about last week?”

Rough footsteps sounded on the stairway, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the room. It was David, dressed in a plain navy jumper and dark pants.

“I’ve found clean trousers!” He exclaimed cheerfully. “Ready to hit the road, mate?” David asked Arthur. He paused, eyebrows furrowing as he took in Andrea’s annoyed expression. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“No,” said Andrea, the same time Arthur said yes. Andrea rolled her eyes.

“Zis is fine,” Andrea said. “Go, Arthur.” Arthur hesitated at his place at the side of the bed, the last duvet still in hand. Andrea impatiently rushed over to take it out of his hands, smoothing it out quickly. Turning, she embraced Arthur in a light hug. “ _Bitte_ , Arthur, don’t do anyzing too dumb.” She released him, stepping back. “I can see vhy Hans told me so much about you.”

“Thanks, Andrea,” Arthur said sincerely.

“Alright,” said David, clapping his hands together. “Let’s ‘get this show on the road’, as you Yanks say.” Arthur followed David down the stairway, his feet creaking on the wooden steps. Eames was waiting for the pair at the bottom, his slicked back hair finally looking as though it was ready to come undone. _We all need a shower._ Arthur thought. _A break_. _Some alcohol sounds nice, as well. I think I left bottle of Perignon at the apartment in France. A pity._

Eames was talking to David, while Arthur’s mind once again drifted off. “... don’t mind if I talk to him for a mo’?”

“I’ll start the engine,” sighed David, and was gone.

That left Arthur and Eames standing in the dim light of the kitchen, alone. They faced each other, silent. Arthur fiddled with the ruined cuff of his sleeve, and Eames pulled at the fabric of his silk shirt.

“At least you’re not wearing that horrid paisley thing you had on the other day,” Arthur said.

“It’s not like I could,” Eames retorted, a small smile on his lips. “Your bloody hand ruined that brilliant piece of my wardrobe.”

“Brilliant?” Arthur questioned, holding back a laugh. “All those years in SAS deprive you of gaining a sense of fashion?”

“No,” Eames said. “Cheeky. Although you know as well as I that those years were more bullets than blazers.” Eames halted in their usual banter, his frown from earlier returning. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. The bullet wound.” Arthur shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the way to the car behind Eames.

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Do you remember that job in New York?” Eames asked, not answering Arthur.

“Of course I do, Eames, you know that,” Arthur said quietly. “That was the last one with Mal.”

“And with Smith, that chemist. He had the levels for his Somnacin wrong, and you, the lightweight, were vomiting into the loo for days after.”

Arthur winced at the memory. “I remember that well, Eames. I was the one throwing up, you know. I don’t see your point.”

“ _M_ _y_ point, Arthur, is that Mal threatened Smith - she was so protective of you. She was livid that you became ill,” Eames smiled, reminiscing. “If I recall correctly, her exact wording was to ‘string him up by the hair of his balls’.” Arthur lips twitched, the memory surfacing in his mind as well. “And I just - ” Eames’ voice broke, and he stepped closer, bridging the awkward gap between them. Arthur took in the way Eames’ eyes looked soft under the low light, the way his eyelashes cast shadows over his tan skin. Eames’ lips parted. He licked his lips, his tongue red. Arthur inhaled, air filling his lungs uncomfortably tight. He could almost imagine that he could feel the heat radiating off of Eames, they were so close. Arthur reached out, laying a steadying hand on Eames’ forearm. Maybe it was his time to say something, for once.

“ARE WE LEAVING OR DO I HAVE TO SUMMON THE BLOODY _QUEEN_ TO DELIVER AN ENGRAVED INVITATION?”

Arthur and Eames jumped back at David’s shouting, startled. “I should go,” Arthur murmured, the moment broken.

“Here,” Eames went over to the kitchen table, fumbling into his bag. “This is the key for the house. Your Glock. And this is an extra encrypted cell phone. All the new specs are on it, you’ll be able to contact me from wherever.” Arthur accepted the items gratefully, slipping his gun back into his waistband.

“You’ll pick up this time?” Arthur asked, walking towards the door.

“You’ve become my number one priority,” Eames said, his trademark smirk returning. “Like it or not.”

 

***

 

The car ride felt unbearably long. David and Arthur exchanged occasional remarks, but both were too tired to make meaningful conversation.

Halfway through, the silence became too oppressive for David. He expressed his appreciation for the handgun Arthur gave him earlier. Arthur mentioned the breakthroughs gun companies were having in making quieter silencers. “Only a matter of time before you can shoot someone and have it sound like a buzzing fly,” David predicted. “Although,”  David raised an eyebrow interestedly, his tone changing. “I heard that you assassinated a Chechnian once with a rolled up magazine and a broken umbrella.” David glanced sideway at Arthur. “That’s hardcore, mate.”

“It was a phone book.”

David nodded appreciatively, humming along with the pop tune on the radio. “Remind me to stay friends with you, Arthur.”

 

***

 

It had been a long day, even by Arthur's standards. He was relieved when David finally pulled the car up to the driveway of the cottage.

“Here we are,” David said, shutting the engine off. He looked over at Arthur, a new respect showing on his face. “Be on the lookout for Charlies, mate. Now that we know Jansen’s people are targeting you, we know you're going to get bombarded by hired killers.”

“I will,” Arthur promised, already scanning the perimeter for anything out of the ordinary. The ugly gnome was back in place, meaning the various trip wires and alarms Eames had scattered all over the property had stayed intact. The house itself looked quiet, devoid of any activity.

“Do you want a scout?” David asked. “I know you slapped that bandage on your back - but Eames warned me you're one of those blokes that doesn't admit to pain.”

Arthur smiled, the corners not quite reaching his eyes. “I'm fine, thank you David. Mr. Eames seems to be under the assumption lately that I'm as fragile as china.” He adjusted his ruined shirt, the fabric chafing at his burned arm. _I just need sleep and a shower. Not necessarily in that order._

David scrutinized Arthur, his expression serious. “Eames has never overtly expressed much worry for those around him, you know that mate? Even in SAS, bloody hell, Eames was the most annoyingly loyal arse you could meet, really. But he never showed it much, except during pranks. He would go the extra kilometer to dump extra sand in my boot or replace my shampoo with hair dye, and so on.

“He was always checking up people - and concealed it. But with you…” David trailed off, a white scar on his jaw gleaming as he turned his head. He met Arthur's eyes. “It's different,” David said. “He's different.”

Arthur wasn't quite sure how to answer that. He knew the pranks David was talking about. Eames delighted in making Arthur's life a living hell whenever he could. But the concern he showed him… from the second Arthur had stumbled over his doorstep, literally, Eames had been nothing but… _helpful_? It was a change of pace, that was for sure, and it all happened so quickly. Arthur didn’t know how to process it.

“Goodbye, David,” Arthur replied finally, clasping the other man's hand in a firm farewell. “Hopefully the next time I see you, it will be from the other side of Colin Jansen’s body.” Arthur opened the Ford’s door, slipping to the ground with a muffled _thump_.

“I can drink to that.” David started up the engine again. Saluting Arthur with his free hand, David drove the car off into the night, the dim headlights quickly fading into the inky darkness.

Arthur stood at the end of the driveway for a minute watching the vehicle disappear. He gazed up at the sky, noticing the grey-black clouds partially blotting out the crescent moon. _It will rain soon_ , Arthur thought, eyes tracing the imposing formations. _A perfect time to bury a body._

Shaking off the morbid thought, Arthur began to trudge down the narrow driveway. He heard the sounds of wildlife around him as he made the trek, yet he could see little to nothing in the darkness. Finally, he reached the front door. He took the key Eames had given him, put it in the lock, and twisted. Pushing on the door slightly with his good shoulder, Arthur walked inside. The house was dark, near pitch black. The only light was coming from the kitchen. Craning his neck, Arthur saw a lamp, which he supposed Eames had left on in anticipation for Arthur's return. _Just another example of forethought I never thought that man possessed._

Arthur hung the key by its ring onto a coat hook. His ruined shirt crinkled at the movement. Arthur's lip curled up in disgust as he took in his cracked sleeve, stained with dried coffee. He felt the dried blood tightening the fabric on his back. _I'll be glad when I can take this horrid thing off. I'd almost prefer a clean paisley shirt. Almost._

But as Arthur trudged his way up the narrow staircase, all he could think about was getting back under that white quilt. It was nearing morning and Arthur couldn't remember the last time he slept. Sighing, he stumbled his way into the room and flicked the light on by the bed.

Arthur took a die out of his pocket, throwing it over the white of the quilt. At the familiar sight of the three, Arthur felt any remaining energy drain out of him. Barely managing to kick off his dress shoes, Arthur fell back on top of the covers, the hard material of the second loaded die poking into his burning side. _Whatever. Too tired._

And there Arthur fell asleep on top of the covers, tie and all. His hand was in his pocket, clutching the phone that connected him to Eames.

 

***

 

_“Eames? Eames? Is that you up there?”_

Arthur was caught in an odd dream. It was particularly rare that he dreamt at all, anymore. The excess of Somnacin running through his bloodstream tended inhibit it. And yet, here he was, standing in front of Eva Jansen… _wait, were they floating?_

She was yet another person that knew Arthur by ‘Eames’. And here she was, calling so insistently, so _loudly_ , her British accent so piercing Arthur wished she would just _shut up_ already, goddamn it - his whole body hurt so much, _it wasn't fair_ , he just wanted to lay here, and she just _kept talking_.

“Eames? Dear, are you in here? Why - ”

And then Arthur's dream shattered as Eva let out a blood curling scream.

Arthur's eyes shot open, confused at the unfamiliar ceiling that consumed his vision. _What the -_ his head snapped to the side, and _he wasn't alone_ , a person was standing in the doorway -

Arthur half rolled, half jumped off the quilt, adrenaline coursing through his system. His back hit the powder blue wall - _oww, fuck_ \- and he scrambled towards the bedside table.

His fingers closed around the grip of his Glock, and he cocked it towards the threat.

But it wasn’t one of Jansen’s men in the doorway, ready to kill him.

It wasn’t David, checking up on him.

It wasn’t even Eames, back to make sure he didn’t faint in the shower - again.

Arthur was aiming his Glock at a total stranger, and not an imposing one, at that. She looked mid-sixties, with a tight bun of brown hair, shot through with grey. She wore a checkered dress, travel bag in hand. At the moment, she clutched the bag to her heart, looking terrified.

“Ah,” Arthur stammered, setting his Glock onto the middle of the quilt carefully. He put his hands up in the air, placating. Arthur met her eyes, taking in the familiar multi-colored flecks. “You’re Eames’ mother, I presume?” He asked awkwardly. “I - I don’t mean any harm.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, young man,” she said, sinking slowly onto the quilt, putting the bag next to her. “I’m afraid Eames didn’t tell me we would have a visitor.”

“It was… unplanned,” Arthur began, hurriedly leaning to grab his gun out of the way of her bag.

“Oh, my,” Eames’ mother blurted out, springing to her feet. “What happened to your back, dear?”

Arthur sighed. _That question is getting old._ “It’s nothing, just some… stains.”

“Nonsense!” She declared, straightening her pearl necklace. She picked up her pouch from the bed. “We are cleaning you up, and then you are coming downstairs to explain all this. I will make tea. My son has not left me totally oblivious to his type of work, you know.” She stopped, considering him. “Although - he never brought company home before. Are you his boyfriend?”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly, wishing that the ground would swallow him up. _I hope I'm at work and this is a dream._ He looked down, finding his die still on the bed, the three facing tauntingly up at him. He sighed, glancing behind him, and noticed the red imprint he had left smeared on the wall. “I’ll clean that up,” he said apologetically. He remembered the blood staining downstairs as well - the tablecloth, the carpet, the couches. _I have a feeling that’s not the last time I’ll be saying that phrase. Whose idea was it for me to come back here?_

"Eames," Arthur sighed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you made it to the end of this one!  
> As always, thanks for reading - comments, kudos, criticisms are appreciated.  
> A big shout out to anyone who commented on the last chapter, and of course my wonderful beta (where's the profile at tho?). I wouldn't make it through every chapter without you guys.  
> I apologize if there are more mistakes than normal. I can't do my usual 1000x run through because I've been procrastinating packing and my plane is leaving soon 0.O  
> A reminder that if you're dying to read more a/e and haven't checked out my other fic, you could do that ;)  
> See you in two Sundays!


	14. Links

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew Eames owned gold sequinned shorts? I wonder what they're a remnant of...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday!  
> Here's the new chapter, as promised.  
> Happy reading!

Dreamsharing is inherently dangerous. Ruthless. A lifespan only dictated by luck, instincts, and intelligence. Arthur knew the game. He wasn't as suave as some, but he could play just fine. Laying false IP trails, forging passports, sleeping with one eye open, and never staying in one city for too long. Arthur was not naïve. But, inexplicably, in front of this woman's seemingly innocent question, Arthur was reduced to a bumbling idiot.

“Mr. Eames - Eames is not my boyfriend,” Arthur stuttered, shaking his head to emphasize his point. The almost-healed cut on his cheekbone twinged and the phone given to him by Eames felt a thousand times more conspicuous in his pocket. “We’re just – he’s been – because of extenuating circumstances, we formed a close, ehm, working relationship recently. Through situations at work, I mean, not anything, ah, personal,” Arthur added hastily, his face reddening. He felt like a teenager that had been caught necking in his father’s Toyota – and nothing had even happened between him and Eames! He didn’t understand why he was acting this way. _Utterly ridiculous. I am a professional. In his thirties._

Dimples formed on Eames’ mother’s cheeks as she smiled, and she dismissed Arthur's rambling with a small wave. A ring glinted on her left hand. “It's fine, dear, I understand. It must be a long story.” Arthur straightened his collar self-consciously, his brown sleeve flashing in his peripheral vision. Eames’ mother followed his movements, keying in on his wince as the motion pulled at his torn stitches. She motioned for him to come over, laying her handbag once again onto the bed. “A story which you will tell me,” she threatened cheerfully. “But right now, come here, love. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't.” Arthur replied, and without his brain’s permission, his feet began to drag him closer to the woman. “But my name is Arthur.” He made his way around the edge of the bed, stopping a respectful distance in front of her. Arthur felt his hand rising back up to mess with the edge of his collar, and brought it down jerkily, wincing. “Would you mind if I used your shower, Ms., uh, Eames?” Arthur asked, deflecting. He didn’t want to be inspected by another person right now, and Eames’ mother looked like someone who wanted to do just that.

“Yes, I would,” she responded, raising an eyebrow. Her lips pursed in displeasure as she looked him up and down. “Mind, I mean to say. And call me Iris, dear, please.”

“Alright, Iris,” Arthur said. He felt uncomfortable just standing in front of her. She was looking at him too closely - the way Eames does, calculating, appraising.

“Turn around, please,” Eames’ mother broke Arthur out of his reverie. He hesitated at the command. One of his fundamental rules was to never turn his back on a stranger, and as nice as Eames’ mother seemed, there was always a possibility that her identity was false. Eames’ mother, _Iris_ , Arthur reminded himself, took his hesitancy as noncompliance. She gently took ahold of his bicep, steering him to face the window. He turned around haltingly, reluctantly. She tsked, taking in the dried bloodstains. “This shirt needs to come off, Arthur.”

“That won't be necessary,” Arthur demurred quickly, halfway twisting back towards her. He looked at her over his shoulder. She had taken out a pair of pink wire rimmed glasses, pushing them up upon her nose. A strand of wavy grey hair fell loose from her tight bun, but she seemed oblivious, utterly focused on his injury. Arthur wondered how she could determine anything through the bandage, but decided it wasn’t polite to ask. “I can assure you I have some medical experience, Ms. - um, Iris. I am capable of managing my own - ”

“Did Eames not inform you that I am a registered nurse?” Eames’ mother asked sharply.  She probed at his tattered shirt with a finger, and it took every bit of resistance that Arthur had not to flinch away on instinct. She came in front of him, her gaze clinical as she surveyed his expression. “We need to take this shirt off, Arthur. It’s filthy. You’re going to contract an infection. Whoever you are, I have a feeling Eames would be a bit bent out of shape if I let you die.”

Arthur was thrown for a loop. “Uh, he didn’t tell me you worked in the medical field.”

“Brilliant, then you can’t protest medical attention. Let’s get down to the kitchen then, love.” And Eames’ mother vanished out of the room. Sighing, Arthur followed after her, sparing one last glance at his room. _Looks like I’m not getting anything done today_ , he thought morosely.

 

***

 

Arthur had always been an observer. It was an important part of his job description. He might not be fantastic at understanding people’s motivations, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least know what they were. And so while Eames’ mother busied herself around the kitchen, Arthur watched her. He saw her clipped, experienced movements while she washed her hands, and noted the way that she slightly favored her left knee. Arthur sat there, wondering at how this woman standing in front of him was the one who presumably raised Eames. Which made him think, really - “Iris? What’s your son’s first name?”

Hands clean, Iris came over to Arthur, sighing when she noticed he hadn't even attempted to remove his shirt. “How about you let me clean you up - no whinging, or booking it either, and tell me exactly you are,” Iris stood in front of Arthur, her head in line with Arthur’s chin, “and then I’ll answer anything you would like to know.” Iris must have pegged Arthur for the bad patient he truly was, because Arthur had been planning on doing just that - ducking out as soon as he took off his shirt, simultaneously mumbling some paltry excuse. But he didn’t want to start off on a bad foot with Eames’ mother. _Anymore than I already have, anyway._ Arthur slowly nodded to her, reluctantly accepting her offer.

“Well, get on with it then,” she said to him, flicking her hands impatiently towards the kitchen table. “I need to see your back somehow, and the best light would be right here.” Arthur swung himself up without complaint, the bare wood smooth under his hands. “I could've sworn I had a tablecloth on here before…” Iris muttered, snapping on latex gloves. Arthur winced at the sight. He was pretty sure Eames’ hadn’t done the same the night of the shooting, and he had been dealing with an open bullet wound. _Whoops._

Arthur settled himself at the edge of the table and began to unbutton his dress shirt - _well, Eames’ dress shirt_. Undoing the front row of buttons, Arthur transferred his attention to his right cuff. Once that was undone, he grimaced at his enclosed left arm, picking at the stained fastenings. The sleeve fell open, and Arthur hesitated, weighing his options. _What would hurt more?_ _Peeling the sleeve off the burn or prying the fabric off my back?_

Arthur wanted to warn Iris about the torn stitches - waiting over a day to check on them had not been a smart move, exponentially increasing his chances of infection - but he didn’t know how. So he kept his mouth shut, and clenched his fingers around the wood, his nails digging into the rough underside of the table. He reluctantly released his grip as Iris helped him take off his right sleeve, and then moved on to his left. The left sleeve’s stained fabric clung stubbornly to Arthur’s burned arm, and she frowned. “What’s this?” Iris asked, gesturing towards the coffee-tinted discoloration. The loose strand of her hair quivered with the movement.

“Nothing,” Arthur said hastily, and ripped off the sleeve without further ado. He hissed as he did so, in tandem with Iris’ surprised intake of breath.

“Bloody hell, Arthur.” Eames’ mother caught his eye, her multicolored gaze flashing in disbelief. “That’s a second degree burn, love.” Arthur looked down at his forearm, the raised pink skin glistening back at him as though wet. Blisters had formed in small lumps around the edges of the mutilated flesh, and the slightest movement caused pangs of discomfort to radiate up his arm. Arthur had been so exhausted yesterday he hadn’t even noticed how bad the burn was. _Well, I feel it now,_ he thought.

“Wait ‘til you see my back, Ms. E - Iris,” Arthur quipped back.

If Arthur had to go by Eames’ mother’s expression, the jest hadn’t been well received. Her face twisted in displeasure, and she huffed, slapping the edge of the table roughly.

“Lay down. Let’s see then,” Iris said. “Let’s see the kind of man my son made friends with.”

 

***

 

Arthur could tell the exact moment Eames’ mother realized it was a bullet wound. Of course, being a nurse, he knew she would figure it out sooner rather than later. But still, he was unprepared for the way her left hand clenched near his head, or how her pattern of breathing sped up incrementally. Her ring flashed as her fingers trembled, and her right hand moved to settle apprehensively on the small of his bare back, as though she could shield him from the news. Arthur couldn’t see the rest of her, but he could almost imagine her shoulders slumping, her eyes growing a fraction wider.

“It seems we have more to chat about than I thought,” said Iris from above Arthur’s horizontal body, her voice quivering just a little. She coughed, and gained back some of her resolve as she asked drily, “And you can’t tell me there’s any chance - any chance you might have impaled yourself on a suspiciously bullet-shaped object, love?”

Arthur shook his head apologetically, blanching just a little as she removed a piece of his shirt with tweezers. The fabric was sticking to his dried wound and makeshift bandage. “Sorry,” he answered, biting out his words as Iris pulled at yet another piece of the ruined shirt. “I’m afraid not. We do have… some things to discuss.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

Arthur was afraid of what Iris actually knew about Eames’ job, and decided to stay quiet for now. He didn’t want to involve her in his mess any more than necessary. For her part, Eames’ mother stayed calm, fussing over Arthur’s back for a long time. She cleaned the wound, dressed his arm, and spat out an impressive amount of profanities after seeing the bruising on his ribs. “Have people reminded you that you’re human, Arthur? How and why you’re walking around is beyond me…” She murmured.

Arthur decided it was probably not a good time to mention that he hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours.

Eventually, Iris banished him to the living room with a cup of fresh-brewed tea, telling him to rest. She then disappeared back into the kitchen, mumbling something about making food. Waiting a few moments, Arthur sipped his tea, and then rose off the couch. Keeping his footsteps light and his breathing even, he snuck behind her turned back, busy at the counter. Still shirtless, he slipped silently upstairs, thanking his lucky stars that none of the floorboards creaked beneath him.

Vaguely, Arthur remembered Eames mentioning the location of his room was a few days ago. He had said it was the door before Arthur’s own. Arthur, still walking noiselessly, halted in front of Eames’ supposed door, debating with himself if what he was about to do was a breach of privacy. After scanning for any tripwires, and sensing none, Arthur made up his mind. He turned the brass knob and stepped inside Eames’ room, moral implications be damned. _Eames would do the same to me_ , Arthur thought. _Although probably not a good thing I’m operating by Eames’ standards...._

It was definitely Eames’ room. As Arthur opened the door, tribal Kenyan masks clattered against the wood, startling him. Black poker chips lay strewn across the bedside mahogany table, remnants of a night gone right. No personal photographs lay framed on the dresser. However, Arthur noticed an old Kodak laying on one end, next to a miniature model of the Empire State Building. Arthur walked over interestedly, picking up the tower. He was amused that Eames would keep something so touristy. Upon closer inspection, the figurine had a cylindrical hole drilled into where the base should’ve been, a perfect fit for a vial. _Poison,_ Arthur guessed. _Or a way to ship drugs. Clever._ Setting the model back down on the dresser, Arthur noticed a white mosquito net strewn in the corner. But he still didn’t see what he wanted.

He walked further into room, scanning the area. He noticed, from the curtains to the bed sheets, the room was accented in subtle tans and maroons. _Why is it that Eames can have good interior design, and yet still wear those atrocious shirts?_ Arthur shook his head, contemplating the conundrum as he stepped onto a bright Kenyan carpet. Still searching around, something silver caught the corner of his eye. Walking over to the dark bed, Arthur smiled as he saw his PASIV and an unfamiliar laptop resting on the maroon duvet. A bright pink post-it note was stuck on the laptop’s silver cover.

 

_For you. I know how you love your research._

 

_~ Eames_

  _P.S. I knew I would get you into my bedroom someday, darling. It was only a matter of time._

 

Arthur rolled his eyes, picking up the laptop and PASIV before leaving Eames’ room. He could hear Eames’ mother humming from downstairs, still occupied, as he walked back into his own room. Arthur crouched, sliding the PASIV under his bed. He was glad to have it back. He exhaled, satisfied, and  rose to his feet slowly, stretching.

The movement reminded him of his newly changed bandages, courtesy of Iris. He was still shirtless. _I should probably fix that._ Arthur walked over to the small white dresser for the first time. Finding it empty, Arthur grabbed his die off the quilt before reaching for his Glock. Pushing the gun into his waistband, Arthur tried to remind himself to conceal it from Iris. He assumed Eames wouldn’t have been able to hide all of the firearms in his possession from his mother, but Arthur knew what assuming could do. He decided to leave the discussion of his own handgun out of question, at least until Iris and himself had their talk.

Arthur picked the laptop off his bed, tucking it under his arm. Looking around, Arthur rolled both of his die in his hand, a comforting motion. Still moving quietly, Arthur pushed back into Eames’ room. He made a mental note to buy some new suits as soon as possible. He couldn’t keep taking Eames’ clothes like this, no matter the circumstances. _No wonder everyone believes Eames and I are in a relationship,_ Arthur thought, placing the laptop back on Eames’ bed. _The only thing I’ve been able to wear is his clothes._

Arthur went over to Eames’ closet, pushing open the bifold doors. He stood there for a moment, trying to come to terms with the fact that 99% of Eames’ wardrobe consisted of a horrible combination of paisley patterns, new-age sweatshirts, and pressed khaki slacks.

Arthur pulled out a relatively bland-looking navy sweatshirt, slipping it gingerly over his bandages. Next, he looked towards the neatly folded pants on the hangers, hoping to find something to wear instead the large dress pants he was currently swimming in. As Arthur reached out to inspect a particularly bold pair of sequined gold shorts, something else glinted in the far corner of the closet. Arthur, never one to leave a mystery uninvestigated, gingerly reached out to touch the gleaming object.

His hand hit something cold, something metal. He unearthed the weighty item out of the closet, knocking the sequined shorts to the floor in his haste. Bringing the mysterious object out into the light, Arthur felt himself go rigid - partly out of recognition, and partly out of surprise.

In his hand was a steel dog collar, the links clacking quietly as he hefted it closer. Besides the stainless steel, the only color adorning the links was a hanging bent circle, a green tag, identical to the cheap ones sold at pet stores. The tag read _Lucky_ in a large, flowing script _._

Without even turning the tag over, Arthur knew there was another engraving on the back. It would read ‘ _You're a complete idiot_ ’. He knew this because this collar had been a gift - from him. Sort of. He had given it to Eames as a joke, after the botched job in Cairo. Eames had really, really wanted to keep the poodle they found wandering near the Nile River.  Arthur had informed him without remorse, that, “No, Mr. Eames, we are not taking a poodle back with us while there's an international manhunt in progress.” _The dry sand from the patchy ground kicked up in a wayward gust of wind, coating Arthur in a wave of grit, blinding him. He blinked, eyes watering, as the sand cleared from his eyes. By the time Arthur had pulled himself back together, Eames was already taking off his belt from the loops of his khaki shorts, winding it gently around the skittish dog. It now had an approximation of a leash. “Come on, darling,” Eames had said, his white teeth gleaming in the hot Egyptian sun. Arthur absently noted how good Eames’ ass looked in his shorts. “The job’s already done, the marks are dead. We can handle a little international cop chase.” Eames gave Arthur a smoldering look - one that would normally cause even the most uptight prude to succumb. Arthur just shook his head, amused yet unswayed by Eames’ logic. “No, Mr. Eames, absolutely not.” He turned in his scorching dress shoes, in what he hoped was the right path back to the airport. Everything looked so similar in the god-forsaken sand. Arthur was definitely not a desert sort of guy. Eames sighed, and began to trudge back next to Arthur, a sulky pout firmly on his face._

Arthur, looking back at the the memory, wondered how Eames had managed it - but somehow, someway,  Eames had smuggled the dog onto his Emirates flight. If Arthur had to guess, he would say bribes and copious flirting with the flight attendants had been involved. Whatever the case, weeks later, from a burner cell phone that traced back to Uzbekistan, Eames sent Arthur a selfie…  with the poodle. Arthur, currently tailing a mark on the metro, stopped to rest his head against the cool metal of one of the poles, exasperated by Eames.

Not usually the one to be impulsive, Arthur purchased the collar and tag that night. Sure, he shipped the gag gift to a place in Mombasa where he knew Eames would find it. _But I never expected Eames to keep it,_ Arthur thought, puzzled. _And in his mother's house, no less…_

“Arthur? Did I not tell you to wait on the sofa?” Arthur looked up to see Iris in the doorway, hands resting on her hips, a serving spoon in one hand.

“Umm,” Arthur said. He slowly lowered the collar to his side, links clinking. Eames’ mother watched him, both of her eyebrows raising.

“Is that what I think it is?” She asked. Then she raised both of her hands in a ‘stop’ motion. “Do I even want to know why Eames’ has a dog collar in his _bedroom_ …  and more importantly why you knew about it?”

“It’s not… like that,” Arthur protested weakly.

“Of course it’s not, love,” Eames’ mother said. “Although I don’t need to know what happens in your bedroom, dear. I had enough of that walking in on my son in his teenage years.”

“Ah.” Arthur didn’t know how to respond. His cheeks tinged pink. Slowly, he walked, placing the collar stiffly onto Eames’ dresser. He picked up the laptop. Turning quickly to face Iris, Arthur felt a wave of dizziness crash over him. He thrust his hand out automatically, his knuckles scraping something before latching on to the surface of Eames’ dresser. He was barely able to prevent himself from falling. _It would be highly embarrassing if I fainted in front of both members of the Eames family,_ Arthur thought, spots encroaching on the edges of his vision. He stared at his feet, willing the rising feeling in his head to go away. He was aware for the first time that he had never taken his shoes off from the previous night.

“Arthur?” He heard Iris move before he saw her, her checkered dress intruding at the perimeter of his sight. Arthur looked up, meeting her worried gaze for the second time that day. “You look like you could use some food, dear.”

“I would like that, yes,” Arthur replied, gradually standing up regularly again. Eames’ mother shooed him in front of her, following him closely as he dragged himself down the stairway, laptop clutched under his arm. The post-it note felt slippery against his fingers.

Arthur found himself seated at the table, a steaming piece of Yorkshire pudding in front of him, along with his abandoned tea. Eames’ mother took the laptop from him, clucking in dissatisfaction. Apparently Arthur’s eating habits bothered her on a moral level. She returned after placing the computer in the sitting room, taking up her place next to Arthur. He took a tentative bite of the meal, closing his eyes slightly as the delicious concoction hit his taste buds. “So, about Eames’ real name,” Arthur began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I have returned.  
> I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind finding a shirtless Arthur in my bedroom...  
> Anyway, just wanted to let you know I'm slowly cross-posting things to Fanfiction.net now, although Ao3 will always get everything first. I'm afraid you're stuck with me!  
> I know this chapter seemed to be mostly fluff, but everything has a purpose, I promise.  
> I'm actually working on a literal/physical plot map to tie up all the endings in this story - this has definitely been one of my hardest to wrap up yet!  
> I hoped you enjoyed this installment - please leave kudos, comments, anything else if you did! I love hearing from everyone.  
> See you next Sunday!  
> <3


	15. Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets into trouble. More trouble.

Arthur felt a little guilty as he inhaled his food. He was usually a pretty precise eater, but there were extenuating circumstances - he had survived an explosion, dodged a sniper’s bullet, and successfully lost a tail on a hot-wired motorcycle. Arthur felt as though the world owed him a break at the moment.

Iris watched Arthur devour his Yorkshire pudding, content to pick at her own food. Arthur ate bite after bite until he couldn’t anymore. Relaxing back into his chair, something niggled at the back of his mind, distracting him. The enigma behind Eames’ name had bothered Arthur for years. Sitting in front of Iris, Arthur realized this was his chance. _She’s the perfect source of information_ , he thought. And so he asked her.

At Arthur’s probing, Iris twisted the band on her finger, thinking. Arthur tracked the motion, a sense of familiarity rising up within him. Cobb had a similar habit, a mindless tracing of his wedding ring. When Arthur first questioned Cobb about the motion, he claimed it was a nervous tic, an unconscious sort of thing. But Arthur was persistent, and his suspicion built. It was only weeks later, when Arthur and Cobb and Mal lay panting on cheap couches, kicked from a failed simulation, that Arthur had his realization. He saw Cobb spring up from the cracked furniture, first rushing over to clutch Mal, and then, almost obsessively, frantically, fumble to touch the metal ring circling his finger. Arthur palmed his die, his dark eyes making contact with Cobb’s blue ones across the room. That’s when Arthur knew. The ring was Cobb’s token.

Of course, it all changed after Mal. _After her death._ She hadn’t just altered Cobb’s life, no, Mal had irrevocably twisted Arthur’s as well. She had been an advisor to Arthur, a confidant. Mal became an unwavering constant in his life - and more importantly, a friend. But then it all went wrong.

Her body, contorted at an unnatural angle, flashed through Arthur’s thoughts, unbidden. It had lain in the cold alley, still, a warning, a cautionary tale. A horrible thing that Arthur had problems associating with the person who had been so full of life. The police report had haunted Arthur, in his waking hours and in the dream world.

No, Cobb wasn’t the only changed man after Mal’s suicide.

Arthur snapped out of the recollection, nonplussed and a little rankled at the abrupt flashbacks. He forced himself to refocus on Eames’ mother, his eyes tracing the filaments of her grey hair. Arthur admonished himself silently. _I’ve been doing that lately, wandering off, losing focus._ Arthur was not happy about the new habit.

“Eames does not like his given names,” Iris began, breaking the silence. Arthur wasn’t sure how long the pause had stretched on, so entrenched he had been in his memories.

“Names, plural?” Arthur questioned, keying in on the phrase. Iris smiled a little, oblivious to Arthur’s internal conflict. She folded her hands on the table, her ring glowing in the midday light.

“It’s a long story, Arthur, but one that I don’t think is mine to tell,” Iris looked across the table sheepishly. “I know I promised you answers, Arthur, but I don’t think that is mine to give. Sorry, dear. Do you have any other questions about Eames?”

Arthur felt some disappointment at the fact that he wouldn’t be able to put to rest the mystery of Eames’ name, even with the aid of his mother. _I guess I’ll have to confront Eames in person, then._ “Am I to assume that Eames’ is your last name, Iris?”

“No, it was his father’s,” Iris said. “We were married,” she confirmed. “I just decided not to take his last name.”

“Alright,” Arthur said, and then, going for casual, “is Eames’ work like what his father did?”

Iris stood, beginning to clear the plates off the table. She waved off Arthur’s help. “No,” she said, picking up Arthur’s dirty silverware. Dress swishing, Iris moved to the sink, keeping her body half turned towards Arthur. “Eames’ father was an accountant, although he was deeply in love with gambling.” She turned on the faucet, beginning her assault on the first dirty plate.

“Just like his son then,” Arthur said, before he could stop himself. He winced inwardly, standing up. “Not that your son gambles a lot,” he rushed out, regretting his flippant comment.

Iris chuckled as Arthur blushed, rushing to come dry a plate. “You don’t have to cover for him, dear. You and I both have seen his room.” Iris laughed, rinsing a dirty fork. “I know my son has a penchant for betting and exploring the world,” she continued. “Although,” Iris paused in passing the fork to Arthur, catching his eye. “He’s never brought work home before.”

“It wasn’t really his choice,” Arthur said. _I guess I do have to explain, sooner or later._ “I may have fallen in with him… literally.” Arthur focused on the silverware, drying it precisely. “Did he mention anything about me - about it, to you?”

“Eames’ not exactly one to call regularly, love,” Iris said, scrubbing vigorously at a particularly stubborn piece of food. “I didn’t even know he came back to his childhood home until I saw you here.”

Arthur paused in his search for a drier dishtowel. “His childhood home?” Arthur was sure he’d misheard Iris.

“Yes,” Iris replied, sounding as though it was the most obvious statement in the world. “Eames hasn’t called on me in this flat in years. He prefers meeting in the city, or other countries, really.”

Arthur felt his whole body tense, more than a little surprised. The way Eames had talked to Arthur, coming here had sounded like a regular occurrence. Arthur had assumed it was yet another safe house when Eames mentioned the night after the inception project. And when Arthur had found out Eames’ mother stayed in the cottage, Arthur had assumed it was a temporary living arrangement at best. Arthur thought of the personalized wallpaper upstairs, and of the pieces of blue china that lined the living room walls. _How stupid of me,_ Arthur thought. _But why…_

“Eames has been very quiet over the past few months,” Iris stated, handing the last piece of silverware over to Arthur. She turned off the stream of water coming from the faucet, contemplative. “The last time we spoke, it was a few months ago. He called from Mombasa, I think. I’m never sure. He told me he had completed another job, that it had been quite a large one. ‘Bloody ridiculous’, I believe was his exact phrasing. I knew just from the tone of his voice that we wouldn’t be speaking again for quite some time. He loves to disappear for awhile.” Iris paused by the sink, smirking just a bit.“The only way to get my son back is to guilt him into visiting. Of course, after helping you,” here Iris lightly tapped Arthur on the arm, “I have something to lord over him. Not that you’re any type of burden, dear,” Iris reassured quickly. “I’ve enjoyed cooking for someone besides myself, again. But Eames doesn’t need to know that.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. _A few months… that would correspond exactly to the Fischer job._ “Did Eames say what he was working on?” Arthur hedged, trying to pry out what exactly Iris knew.

Iris put up a finger, maneuvering around Arthur, and motioned for him to follow her. “Let’s go sit somewhere comfortable,” she suggested. He trailed after her into the sitting room, perching on the edge of a white armchair. Iris sank down onto the matching sofa, and Arthur blanched as he spotted a small bloodstain on one of the arms, undoubtedly from him. Arthur resolved to mention the cleaning of the couch later.

“The job,” he prompted, leaning forward a little, trying to look open and curious. Arthur’s bandages bent along with his body language, rudely reminding him of his healing wounds. He grimaced at the feeling, but stayed put, intent on Iris’ response.

“Well,” she began. “Did you know Eames was in the military for awhile? I assume so…” Arthur nodded, unsure as to where Iris was going. “Right,” she said. “So after the military, or his rebellious phase, as I like to call it, it’s my understanding that my son met contacts within the system. That led him… on missions that weren’t, ah, sanctioned by the queen, so to speak. Of course, my son didn’t say outright that what he was doing was illegal - ” Iris cut off, taking in Arthur’s expression. “You don’t look very surprised by all this, Arthur,” she said. “ After I saw the bullet wound, I was intrigued, but I just want to hear it from your mouth, love - are you in whatever mess Eames has gotten himself into?”

Arthur had forgotten to hide his relief, so ecstatic he was by Iris' version of events. He had expected no less of Eames - an elegantly crafted cover story, one that fit his life like a glove, _a perfect forgery, if you will_ \- but Arthur was just glad that the cover fit with his problems at the moment. Iris knew enough to listen to Arthur if he said they were in danger, but not enough to be pumped for information. Of course, Arthur wasn't naive, he knew that if any of Jansen’s men caught wind of her, kidnapping Iris was a very distinct possibility. But it was nice to know that Iris hadn’t been dragged too deep into the world of dreamsharing. Arthur knew from experience it was not the most positive of places.

“Eames is helping me out,” Arthur finally said, twisting his hands together in his lap. “I can’t really let you know more, because honestly, I need to do some research into the situation myself - ” _which I will, as soon as I can get Eames’ laptop and some time alone_ , “ - but right now all I can say is that I’m not in a great spot at work.” Arthur tore his focus off his hands to look at Iris. He took in her checkered dress, kind face, and laugh lines, and realized this really was Eames’ mother - the woman who saw him take his first steps, learn how to add, even how to tie his shoes. A woman who deserved better than what Arthur could offer at the moment. “I can also say that your son saved my life.” Arthur looked straight into Iris’ eyes, the multi-colored irises so similar to her son’s. “I can say that I owe a great many things to him, and I regret ever thinking that he was a person not worth my time.” Arthur thought about how Eames had the forethought to leave the laptop on the bed, and how Arthur currently owned a cell phone because of the man. “Not only is Eames brilliant at the work he does, he’s perceptive away from assignments as well.” Arthur shifted back in the chair, the folds of his navy sweatshirt pooling around his abdomen. “But please don’t tell him I told you all of this, Iris. He has a big enough ego as it is.” Arthur gave Iris a tentative smile, amazed at how much he had just divulged.

A soft smile had begun to take shape on Iris’ face. And by the end of Arthur’s proclamations, the only thing that Arthur could think of to describe Iris’ expression was joy.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Iris said quietly, thankfully. “It’s been a long time since I have heard anything about my son.” She brightened a little, smoothing a white doily on the coffee table in front of her. “But you’re correct, I won’t tell him about what you just said. Lord knows the boy has a bloody large enough head as it is.”

Arthur and Iris continued to talk for a while. Arthur asked about her vacation in Italy, and Iris went on about the beautiful beaches and the local culture. Her face contorted in a proper British manner as she described with slight shock the prevalence of nude benches. Arthur laughed, mentioning his extended visits to France. Iris latched on to the topic, asking him question after question about the people and the culture. Arthur went on into great detail about the city, especially its architecture, thinking of Ariadne. Iris discussed her simultaneous love and hate of cities, and Arthur mentioned New York, the other city he had lived in recently. Iris reacted with joy at the thought, and Arthur, thinking back to talking with Eames, said, “Your son was there in New York for a job with me, once.”

Iris looked startled at Arthur’s pronouncement, but was quick to hide it. “Was he?” She asked rhetorically. “He never mentioned it.”

“It didn’t go so well,” Arthur said with a trace of bitterness, thinking of his long stay in front of the toilet. _I’m surprised Eames remembered how sick I was. That was awful..._

Arthur startled as his phone rang. He smiled apologetically at Iris. “It’s probably your son,” he guessed, rising from the couch. “I’ll take it outside, if you don’t mind.”

Iris looked up at him, her face twisting into a frown. “Alright,” she said, watching Arthur move away. “If you think that’s needed.”

But Arthur was already gone, striding away until he saw the back door, fumbling with the handle. Arthur located the button, answering the call just as he pushed the screen door outward. “Hello?” Arthur said, stepping outside. The sky was overcast above him, sun shining weakly through layers of grey clouds.

“Hello darling.” Eames voice filtered into Arthur’s ear, slow and seductive.

“Any news?” Arthur asked, a little sharper than normal. His thoughts had rebelled against him, straying towards the collar currently laying on Eames’ dresser. _Focus on the job, Arthur._

A muffled shuffling began from Eames’ end, as though he was pressing his phone against his shirt.

 _“No, no, I’m available. Just on the phone with a supervisor._ ” Arthur faintly heard Eames’  through the static, his tone authoritative and serious. Someone replied, and there was more rubbing noises. Eames’ phone was suddenly clear of interference. “Arthur?” Eames said.

“What’s going on?” Arthur asked, stepping off the cement step and onto the grass in front of him. He began to pace, bringing the phone closer to his ear. A slight breeze ruffled his collar, playing with the short bristles of hair on his neck. “Where are you?” The same loud scratching interfered with the call once again, and Arthur sighed, pacing faster.

More voices could be heard on Eames’ end of the call, and Arthur heard a rapid clicking noise, a sound that seemed mildly familiar to him. He began walking in a direction parallel to the back of the cottage, trying to make out more identifying background noises.

 _“Mr. Johnson, you said… familiar with blood spatter analysis and… correct?”_ A high pitched voice permeated through the static, and Arthur could just makes out some technical jargon. He recognized one of Eames’ many pseudonyms, and reduced the speed of his nervous pacing just a little. Eames responded to the voice, but his speech was too muffled to make out. The clicking returned, and Arthur realized the sound for what it was. _A camera? Who would be using that?_

Arthur’s pacing has taken him past the house. Unconsciously, he began to follow the route he and Eames had taken days ago. Still straining for any communication besides static, Arthur continued walking, mindlessly trudging along the path.

“Arthur? Arthur are you there?” Eames finally spoke clearly once more. His voice echoed slightly, sounding tinny, as though he had taken shelter in a tight space.

“Are you back for real this time, Mr. Eames?” Arthur drawled, more than a little irked. He hadn’t answered to listen to static all day.

“Yes, darling, I’m sorry I -” There’s the sound of a door opening, hinges creaking. “Can’t you see I’m occupied, Constable?” Arthur heard the snapping of Eames’ tone even through phone. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’m sure the Sergeant can manage… yes, I understand this is a high-profile case. That’s why I’ve been working _all bloody day_.”

Arthur kicked a rock with the toe of his dress shoe, frowning slightly.

“I’m at the crime scene, Arthur.” Eames is back, sounded hurried. Arthur almost asked _what crime scene?_ Until it hit him - Eames is at _Arthur’s_ , at the alley outside of CurrencyCorp. _My great escape,_ Arthur thinks.

“Have you found anything out?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Eames hissed, something banging as he exited the space he was in. “Where is - ” Eames stopped talking to Arthur for a moment, distracted. “Excuse me, excuse me sir, yes, I need to get back here. No, I’m supposed to be here, do you see my badge? Alright, thank you, excuse me…” Arthur kept striding further down the path as Eames moved, spotting the shed ahead of him. He didn’t really know why he was walking. All that he knew was that he couldn’t sit still while Eames was at a crime scene for him.

“Here, here’s _Helga_ ,” Eames says, this time speaking directly into the phone. “She can talk to you, Arthur, let you know what’s going on. I have to return and _help_ those incompetent gits.” There’s another crackling noise, and Eames’ voice gone.

“Arthur? _Hallo_?” Andrea’s accent rushes through the phone, and Arthur feels himself relax at the sound of another familiar voice.

“Andrea,” Arthur says. “Would you please tell me what’s going on? Eames called me and all he’s done so far is let me know that you’re currently at a crime scene. Everyone’s been speaking to him and the man hasn’t explained what - ”

Andrea cuts Arthur off, urgent, her voice frantic, accent thickened. “Arthur, _ja_ , I know, it’s frustrating for all of us to try und communicate. But you haf to understand, Arthur, somezing’s vrong.”

Arthur stopped cold, his feet touching the moss-covered rock that separated him from the edge of the shed. “What do you mean, Andrea?” He asked steadily, trying to calm her. “What’s wrong?”

“Arthur,” Andrea says, and Arthur can feel her considering how to deliver the news. “The crime scene ist cleaned up, like ve thought. But not for you. Only vor dat man, ehm, Jansen’s men. You, you are vanted - they are looking for you.” Arthur can hear Andrea’s panic through the phone, and it takes all of his willpower not to find a car to take him back to London. “You are _angeklagte_ \- accused of many things, Arthur. I vas there, at the docks, vhen dey got zey call. Arthur - ” Andrea paused once more, taking a deep breath, so loud, so shaky, that Arthur could hear her tremors. “You are wanted for murder."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't completely happy with this chapter because I hate writing dialogue. But I tried. I'm sorry I'm a little late today, things have bogged me down. But I'm sticking to my deadline, and here it is. At least for some of my readers in the U.S. it won't be too late...
> 
> Huge shout out to my beta, TempestFlame, who finally made a profile and never fails to offer me great advice!
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated! We're slowly building up to the ending, everyone! Very, very slowly.  
> <3


	16. The White Collar Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it rains, it pours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You really don't want to know how many hours I've spent slaving over this chapter.  
> As always, shout out to my lovely beta, TempestFlame.
> 
> The Cobol Job mentioned below is a real part of the Inception universe. Unfortunately, the comic is gone, but here is a [Inception wikilink](http://inception.wikia.com/wiki/Inception:_The_Cobol_Job)
> 
> Happy reading!  
> <3

Arthur was angry. It went without saying that he was incredibly agitated - that tends to happen when someone finds out they’re wanted for first degree murder. But Arthur wasn’t just tense. He was incensed.

Arthur ended the call abruptly with Andrea. He turned smartly on his heel, rocks grinding beneath him. And then he began to run, sprint, bolt back to the cottage, back to the laptop, back to where he could have a semblance of control over the situation. Millions of thoughts snapped through Arthur’s mind, circling and grinding against each other in a vicious, endless loop.

One thought was most prevalent, tearing at his consciousness as relentlessly as the wind tore through his hair. _Why did I trust anyone but myself?_

Saito was supposed to wipe the security cameras. David was supposed to make sure everything was fine, taken care of. He had reassured Arthur. Andrea had backed David up, and even encouraged Arthur to go against his instincts, back to the house. Eames was the tipping point, the person who convinced Arthur to return - to his own mother’s house, a person Arthur could put in danger, and something Eames conveniently left out of the equation. That was a red flag Arthur had somehow been color blind to, and he was regretting it.

Finally, Iris had accommodated Arthur in her home. She had been immensely compassionate and helpful beyond what Arthur could’ve hoped for. She fed him and dressed his wounds and - wasted his time. Time Arthur should’ve used for cleaning up his mess, not snoring into a quilt. _Goddamn it._

Yes, Arthur was angry. Infuriated. Livid. But not with them. Not with any of them. Only with himself.

Arthur’s anger fueled his legs. The normally fifteen minute trek back to the house turned into a five minute sprint. By the time Arthur reached the back door, his lungs were aflame, chest constricted in his bandages. And worst of all, he was soaked.

It took him a few moments to realize that it must have started raining. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn’t even noticed the ongoing deluge that had opened up above him. The sky had grown dark and volatile, a mimicry of Arthur’s own emotions.

Shivering off some cold water, Arthur skidded into the dark house with a bang, door slamming against the inside wall. His feet squeaked as he stomped across the tile floor, leaving puddles of liquid mud behind him. Arthur wondered offhandedly if his new cell phone was waterproof.

With unusual carelessness, Arthur threw Eames’ drenched sweatshirt onto the ground, mud and water flying across the tiles in dark rivulets. Arthur whipped shirtless through the house, torso bare except for ruined, damp bandages. “ _Fuck!_ ” he swore, wrenching Eames’ laptop from the sitting room. He stormed over to the living room table, pants dripping. Droplets ran in slow tracks through Arthur’s black hair, beading in his eyelashes and blurring his vision. Even without the hindrance of the water, the room was dark, the only illumination coming from the weak outside light. Water dripping from his wrist, Arthur flicked on the ornate white lamp next to the sofa.

Blinking furiously, Arthur powered up the laptop with a jab of his finger, his knee bouncing anxiously as he sat at the edge of the furniture. Cataloging the unconscious tic, Arthur stopped the bouncing angrily with a slap of his palm. Irritated, Arthur swiped some water off his brow with his other hand. The drops flew off his skin, scattering onto the illuminated keys of the device in front of him. Arthur shook his head in vexation, turning to look out the window. The view was dark with storm clouds, the glass letting in little light. He watched the storm move in for a minute, clouds rolling, lightning flashing. He clenched his left fist rhythmically, still feeling the pull at the middle of his palm where Eames had sewed the skin back together. Arthur sat there, staring, trying to think back to a time in his life when things were stable, when there wasn’t some sort of hit out for his life. He twisted one of the dice in his hand, thinking back to the Cobol fuck-up.

Dom and Arthur had been hired to extract the Proclus Global plan from a man named Kaneda. But despite being the chief engineer of the company, the man hadn’t known the plans for what they wanted.

And that hadn’t even been the problem. No, it had been Cobb. It was the first time Arthur had felt the sheer instability of Dom’s mind after Mal’s death. A passenger bus had been manifested in front of the man, in full view of the projections, in the middle of the downtown. Arthur, always on the lookout for his friend, had barely managed to pull Dom out of the way from the offending vehicle. Arthur shook his head, remembering the mess that the rest of the job had been. Their architect, an unreliable coworker named Nash, had died mid-dream. Arthur had been shooting police officers left and right to create a diversion, even with the dream collapsing around him. It had been ridiculous, stressful, and just the start of the horrible route of work that Dom had dragged Arthur along on, culminating in the Fischer inception. Dom had been desperate to get his kids back, ignoring anyone else’s safety in the process.

And Cobol was still hunting Arthur to this day. It was all Cobb’s fault, and although Arthur still cared for the man, Arthur was also not one to forget wrongs.

Arthur looked back at the blue-white light of the laptop and was tempted to put his head into his hands. On the screen, there was a line of text proclaiming ‘31 out of 42 updates completed’. Arthur looked down at himself, tired. In the glow of the laptop and the lamp, Arthur took in his bare chest, his arms. Old scars had mostly faded across his pale skin, except for a few raised portions of flesh Arthur would rather forget the origin of. Glancing at the undersides of his two arms, Arthur could barely make out the silvery-white streaks that marked the insides of his elbows, almost like a web. If someone didn’t know better, most would probably take the faint scars on Arthur’s forearms as the cicatrices of a recovering drug addict. But, as few knew, the scars he bore were a tell, a map of Arthur’s long history in dreamsharing. The most recent signs of assault upon his skin were all on his right arm. A few, mostly healed marks from the planning of the Jansen job, and three new ones, courtesy of Eames. _I still can’t believe he knew my blood type,_ Arthur mused. _I’m still angry that I’m putting his mother in danger, but he’s been so helpful it’s hard to stay affronted…_

Forty-two out of forty-two updates later, Arthur sank forward once more, preparing for some heavy-duty internet research. _I need to figure out what the newspapers are saying, if any of my identities are compromised, if I’m labeled as a terrorist, I wonder if…_ But Arthur’s musing stopped abruptly as the login screen loaded, because a box waiting for a password appeared in front of him. Arthur sighed once more, running a hand through his black rain-slicked hair. _I am not going to interrupt Eames or anyone else in London over a simple password._ Arthur typed in a few half-assed guesses, his whole body going rigid as he was denied entry for the fourth time. “Shit,” Arthur cursed under his breath, rising to his feet. He was ready to walk to London if that’s what it would take to get _something to goddamn work._

“Arthur?”

Arthur spun around in the dim light, every muscle in his body aching to lash out. Even as he took in Iris’ impeccant form in the doorway, Arthur still felt the irrational urge to hit something. Something about focusing on her cheap pink glasses snapped Arthur back to reality, his fists unclenching from their previously taut positions. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ Arthur thought, mentally giving himself a shake. _I’ll figure this all out. Without committing another murder in the process._

All fuming emotions drained out of Arthur as he felt a rush of weariness sweep over him. He couldn’t believe how angry he had gotten, and at Eames’ mother of all people.  “Iris,” Arthur said, his voice tiredly hollow. “Do you know the password to Eames’ laptop?”

Iris took in Arthur for a moment, her lips parting in an unasked question. “No,” she said finally. “No, I do not.” Iris looked Arthur’s form up and down, taking in his lack of a shirt and the soaked state of his pants. “I take it the phone call did not go well, love?”

Arthur fell back onto the sofa’s cushions, his head hitting the curve of its edge. He laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the textured ceiling. “No,” Arthur replied, his gaze still resolutely fixed on the white ceiling above him. “The call most definitely did not go well.” Arthur sat back up a little, looking at the computer with distaste. He was tempted to throw the laptop across the room. “And you don’t have any other computers?” Arthur asked Iris. “No other hotspots I could use, no other connections to WiFi?” Iris just shook her head, looking compassionately at Arthur’s desperate form.

“I’m not one much for technology,” Iris said. “Never have been.” Arthur could feel Iris’ gaze on his back a little while longer, her hovering form an unspoken presence at his back. “I’m going to make a cuppa,” she said finally, leaving Arthur alone in the living room. Alone with his computer. Given to him by Eames.

 _I’m sure Eames thought this would be some cute joke_ , Arthur thought sourly. He looked at the clock. It was growing late, but Arthur could not be sure Eames had left the scene of the crime yet. He wasn’t keen on calling the man if he was just going to have to play pass-the-cellphone-down-the-line once more. _I can figure this out,_ Arthur thought, urging himself on. _The password can’t be too difficult. Eames wouldn’t do that to me._

Arthur sat there a few more minutes, the excess water dripping off his muscles and onto the fabric of the cushions below. _I’m going to ruin this couch._

The sound of glass breaking startled Arthur out of his concentration. He rose to his feet, worried. “Iris?’ He called. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, dear!” Iris replied, a little too hurriedly. “Just surprised is all.”

Arthur wasn’t up to Eames’ standard of human perception, but even he could hear the lie in her tone. He got up from his prostrate position, moving into the kitchen.

Once in the small kitchen, Arthur immediately realized what had been the source of the crash - porcelain shards of what once had been a teacup lay scattered across the tile, their white pieces blending in well with the light flooring. Some puddles of tea lay in the middle of the slivers, dotting the floor in minute brown specks. Arthur quickly commandeered the dustpan from a seemingly shaken Iris, sweeping up the silvers efficiently, and mopping up the tea with a rag. After Iris directed him to the trash to throw out the fragments, Arthur quickly turned back to the counter, placing the small brush and bin to the side.

“What’s wrong, Iris?” Arthur asked the older woman, coming closer to her. She was visibly unnerved, fiddling with the beaded chain of her glasses anxiously. Iris waved Arthur over hesitantly, and he followed her into the sitting room. A small television was on in the corner, a ‘mute’ symbol showing up prominently in the bottom left corner of the screen.

“It’s just, well, I turned on the telly to watch the news programme, like every night - even Eames knows I watch the same one, BBC, you know,” Iris pauses, glancing at Arthur, seemingly unsure of whether to go on. Arthur felt a pit forming in his stomach, the beginnings of bad thoughts taking shape in his mind. “And as I was going to grab the biscuit tin for both of us,” Iris swallowed, twisting her glasses’ chain. “I just - I thought I heard something, love.”

At this point, Arthur was in full-blown damage control mode, although he was making sure to conceal it. _What if Iris saw news about me? Oh no, what if they have a description…_ “What was it, Iris?” Arthur questioned, his touch clammy and hesitant on her elbow. “It’s alright, you can tell me.”

“It was my son,” Iris said, lowering her grip down from the glasses. “He was on the news.”

 _Well that’s not what I was expecting,_ Arthur thought. “What was Eames doing? Why was he on TV?”

Iris laughed a little, the sound so choked Arthur wondered if Iris really was alright. “I’m probably just imagining things, dear,” she said. “I didn’t even see him. Like I said, I was walking back to the kitchen and just heard his voice.” Arthur turned back to the muted box, his eyes taking in a commercial for dish soap.

Knowing the man’s resourcefulness well, Arthur was less skeptical than Iris  - Eames seemed to be able to get into anything, once he was determined enough. But Arthur couldn’t be obvious about his suspicions - he was still trying to protect Iris from her son’s other life, or at least, shield her as much as possible. “What did you think you heard, Iris?”

Iris looked a little sheepish, her hazel eyes darting back to the kitchen. “I dropped my tea before I could really hear too much, I’m afraid. I was just so surprised to hear his voice, you know. I told you Arthur, I rarely speak to Eames, never mind see him. It’s no surprise I imagined it, love. It’s too bad - ” Iris halted in her response, suddenly looking excited. “Wait!” She exclaimed. She stepped in front of Arthur abruptly, and he leaned out of her way, his bare back hitting the wall behind him. He winced as the impact filtered through his bandages. “Sorry, love, sorry,” Iris apologized, grabbing a black remote off the table. She peered at the buttons, slipping on her pink-rimmed glasses. “Eames bought this telly last time I saw him, claiming my old one was outdated or some such nonsense…” Iris fiddled with the black device a few moments, her eyes scanning the controls rapidly. She gave up in a matter of seconds, thrusting the remote Arthur’s way. He took it questioningly, unsure of what to do. Iris must have spotted his confusion, because she waved in the direction of the television expansively, as though gesturing to an invisible being. “Along with the TV, Eames bought some fancy box,” she said. “I forgot, because I never use it, but he insisted on buying it.” Iris beamed up at Arthur, some of her previous confidence returning to her posture as she winked. “Whenever Eames is here, he likes to record that one show with the autos and those two loud men, always spouting on about foreign vehicles and such. I can’t recall the name…”

“Top Gear?” Arthur asked automatically, still lost in whatever thought process Iris was heading down.

“Yes, yes, that’s the one, love. My point is, he’s able to record and rewind everything with that thing, even if it’s a programme he’s watching live,” Iris said, touching the device in Arthur’s grip. “So - ”

“ - I can do it now to watch where you thought you heard Eames,” Arthur finished, smiling just a little. “Good catch, Iris.” He looked at the remote in the low light, the storm outside casting strange shadows into the living room. The storm had grown even stronger, the rain pounding against the windows determinedly.

They settled nearer to the television, and Arthur aimed the remote at the various boxes next to the TV. After pressing ‘rewind’ both himself and Iris gave a sigh of relief as the live broadcast began to play backwards.

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching people and commercials reverse as the rain continued to hit against the side of the house. “There!” Iris cried out, as Arthur rewinded past a news program. “That’s the start of the programme I always watch.”

Keying off her directions, Arthur fast forwarded a little more, pressing play just as the broadcast began.

“ - to welcome you to BBC Newsnight,” a male news announcer sat at a blue desk, his white hair bright under the camera lights. “Tonight we have breaking news coming out of the business district of London. We have just received news of a police investigation in the - ”

“See, I told you it must have been nothing, Arthur,” said Iris, laying a hand on his arm. “We should find a shirt for you, love, and forget about this.”

But Arthur was still, his eyes trained on the screen. He didn’t even acknowledge Iris’ words, so focused he was on the news report.

“ - questions are arising from the public about this investigation, as reports are coming in that the actual crime happened over a week ago, and information is only being released to the media as of today. Now we will transition to footage from earlier today, where…”

Arthur watched the screen avidly as the cameras cut away from the reporter. A strange buzzing began in his ears as he saw the footage in question. Although the area was swamped with various police vehicles, crime scene tape, and investigators, the alley next to CurrencyCorp was unmistakable to Arthur, down to the fire escape in the background.

“I am here at the focal point of London’s investigation.” A serious-looking reporter stood in front of the camera, her cheery blouse at odds with the surrounding personnel. “Information has been hard to come by, but our sources say that a bomb evacuation was used as a diversion by  the perpetrators, who proceeded to engage in a firefight on the fifth floor of this building. Motives are unknown, however the offices damaged in the incident were identified to be property of CurrencyCorp, a business firm specializing in… ” Arthur tuned out the reporter, running a hand over his damp hair. _Fuck. This is worse than I thought._

“ - an unidentified male was found dead outside the building, suffering one shot to the - ”

“Arthur, why are you still watching this?” Iris’ grip increased on Arthur’s arm. “There’s really nothing to be gain from watching all of this morbid talk, I must have been mistaken - ”

“In addition, a nearby small business suffered an apparent break-in yesterday, also by armed assailants. Information so far points to this robbery as an isolated ‘violent incident’, although no deaths or injuries have been reported. However, the owner was not available for comment, and -” The news reporter paused, and Arthur recognized the signs of someone listening to an ear piece. She leaned forward to hear better, her hand coming up to press on the device. A few seconds later the woman straightened, looking grim. “Officials have confirmed that the owner of the burglarized café is missing.”

 _Eddie is missing?_ A picture flashed across the screen, and Arthur swallowed heavily, recognizing a younger version of Eddie’s face, complete with long blond hair. “This picture shows Edward Dawson, the missing man in question. Listeners are encouraged to contact the police with any and all related information. Edward is described as…” Arthur blocked out the newscaster’s voice, his headache growing stronger by the minute.

“Shit,” Arthur said quietly, forgetting about Iris’ presence next to him. She stiffened, staring harder at the screen.

“Edward Dawson,” she read. “Arthur, is that someone you - ” but Iris’ question is drowned out as Arthur turns up the volume, the broadcast cutting back to the female reporter.

“The London police have declined to comment if these two disturbing crimes are in any way related to each other, however, here with us we have Investigator - ” Arthur forgoed paying attention to the newscaster’s talking to watch a man come into view on the left hand side of the screen, his dark blue jacket matching the surrounding crime scene workers. “ - and here he is, with details related to these stunning developments. Investigator, can you confirm that the two incidents are related? If so, what do you think happened to the store owner, Edward Dawson?” The woman thrust the microphone closer to the young investigator. He backed up a little, looking uncomfortable.

“At the moment, we are hesitant to confirm any suspicions about the nature of this crime, however, we can state with definite certainty that the criminals involved in both surveyed areas are trained, possibly gang related, and…” The male investigator went on with his analysis, foregoing the cameras to speaking directly with the female reporter. He seemed awkward in the spotlight, and looked very young as he picked at the cuff of his jacket.

Arthur locked on to the reluctant investigator’s statement, his arms crossing over his bare chest. The bandages creased under his biceps, reminding him of his own setbacks. His frown grew larger.

Iris’ own expression gradually changed to one of horrified understanding as she watched Arthur, her grip falling off his arm in shock. “Don’t tell me you’re involved in this? That man just said this might be a work of a gang!” Iris reeled, clutching onto Arthur’s arm one more. He shifted, but didn’t shake her off, and tore his eyes off the screen to look at her, eyebrow raised. “Do you owe money to someone, Arthur? To a mob? Is that why you sought Eames’ help? Love - were you shot because of it?”

Arthur hit the ‘pause’ button as Iris continued to pepper him with questions, unable to focus on the investigator’s words. “Iris,” he sighed. “I will explain to you what is going on - once I know myself. But as of right now, can we focus on this?” Arthur gestured towards the TV with the remote. A thought struck him. “Have we even gotten to the point where you thought you heard Eames?”

Iris frowned at Arthur, looking slightly affronted. She crossed her arms over her chest as well. “No,” she said shortly. “I watched this live. But any moment now.” Arthur nodded, resuming the broadcast once more. The reporter was interrogating the investigator, and he remained fidgety, darting glances off screen, probably back at where he had been working.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “I can’t comment much more on the issue right now. If you would like, I’m sure once one of the detectives has more information. When they are cleared and have a spare moment, I’m sure - ”

“That’s alright mate.” A voice sounded from behind the analyst, clear enough to be picked up by the news station’s microphones. Broad shoulders entered from in front of the camera man, taking up the screen. A white shirt blocked the cameraman for a second, engulfing the picture in white. The cameraman shifted, and the picture focused again. The man in plain clothes was now standing next to the investigator. And although he was wearing glasses and his hair was out of its gelled style, Arthur recognized the cause of the interruption.

It was Eames.

Iris gasped as Arthur fumbled for the remote. He paused the program, looking over at Iris. “Looks like your ears heard correctly.”

Iris shook her head, seemingly unable to reconcile the man on television to be Eames. _Who’s in full view for anyone watching the nighttime news_ , Arthur thought unhappily. “But why… ” Iris trailed off, looking flabbergasted. “Why would he be _there_?” She wrung her hands. “No - _how_ could he be there?”

Arthur just shook his head, flipping the remote towards the television once more. “I guess we’ll just have to find out,” he said, and pressed play.

Eames moved, pulling out a chain from underneath his pressed white shirt. He quickly flashed the attached badge at both the investigator and the disgruntled looking reporter. “I’ll take it from here. Orders from the higher-ups, you’re to get back to work.” Eames directed the last part of his speech to the investigator, who looked positively ecstatic to leave the interview. The analyst barely remembered to shake the reporter’s hand before scrambling off screen, only pausing to nod once more to Eames.

“Who are you?” The reporter asked Eames. Her tone was superficially pleasant, but Arthur could hear the undertones of annoyance in her voice.

“I’m Mr. Johnson, a detective here. And you’re BBC news, correct?” Eames flashed his usual beguiling smile the reporter’s way. “I’ve always loved watching the daily broadcast.”

“Great!” The reporter said, recovering herself and smoothing a hand down her hair. _She’s ensnared_ , Arthur thought, rolling his eyes. “I am reporting for BBC. Actually, we’re taping a segment for the nightly broadcast - would you mind being in it? We’ve haven’t been able to get much information for our viewers, and it would be brilliant to get a statement - ” the reporter’s words cut off as the video was edited, quickly switching to a shot of Eames standing closer, microphone pointed towards him. Arthur smirked. He could only imagine what Eames had said to the reporter in order for the station to edit it out.

“ - that particular speculation has run rampant the past few days,” Eames was saying, glancing periodically towards the reporter. “Although I would go far as to say in my personal opinion that the two crime scenes are _not_ connected in any way,” Eames stated. The reporter looked unhappy that he wasn’t entertaining her theory.

“But don’t you think that two violent incidents within a block of each other are suspicious?” She asked Eames. “Mr. Johnson, the public will be worried - Inspector Brown just said that he believes the perpetrators could be part of an organized crime organization.”

Eames looked surprised, raising an incredulous eyebrow at the reporter. “Inspector Brown has had a long day,” he said, brushing off the reporter’s speculation. “However,” Eames turned fully so that his body was facing the camera. He paused for a second, ensuring the attention of the viewers. Arthur was surprised at how intensely Eames seemed to be looking into the camera.

“I do believe that these criminals will be _persecuted fully_ for their part in these offenses. I would also speculate that neither the police nor the media has received the full story yet, and every discovery at this crime scene will have to be taken with a grain of salt. Much research will have to be done into the origins of these crimes, before we come to any direct conclusions.” Eames turned back to the reporter, seemingly satisfied with his monologue.

The broadcast cut once again, except this time back to the usual nightly reporter. “And there you have it,” the man with white hair was saying. “BBC was one of the few stations able to broadcast from the main crime scene earlier today. As of now, that section is closed to the public due to the ongoing investigation. Later developments have prompted us to show this video released by the police.  The media has been informed that this man is unidentified, but classified as one of the lead perpetrators involved in the violent CurrencyCorp shooting, dubbed ‘The White Collar Killer’ by some outlets.”

The news report cut to a grainy security feed, in which Arthur recognized one of CurrencyCorp’s main entrances. The cameras showed a side view of a receptionist’s desk. The woman behind it was shuffling papers and glancing down towards a computer. Her head lifted as a man came striding out of the elevator, purposefully tilting his head away from the camera. He was dressed very professionally. Arthur could make out the signs of a well tailored suit peaking out from the edges of his black coat. The man moved a little, accidentally knocking some papers off the desk, and Arthur cursed.

“What Arthur?” Iris asked. “What is it?”

Arthur just shook his head, watching the grainy security video play out. He already knew what was going to happen - the man was going to stoop down, and go behind the edge of the counter to aid the receptionist in picking up the papers. The man’s face was turned away from the camera the whole time, but Arthur also knew as soon as the man knocked the papers, sending the receptionist scrambling to the floor, he plugged in a flash drive to the computer. That flash drive would duplicate all of CurrencyCorp’s files and document the makeup of the company’s entire network. And, as the man moved behind the desk to help pick up the papers, Arthur knew he was going to extract the flash drive once more, download complete.

Of course, none of it was apparent from the video that BBC was showing. At best, viewers could observe the man knocking over the papers and clambering to retrieve them, hitting the edge of the woman’s computer in the process. In addition, he bumped into the receptionist once more on the way up, somehow ending up on the other side of the woman in the process, nearer to the computer.

Arthur knew all this because the man in the video was him. He was part of the current security footage being aired on television, a piece of video that Sandy swore she had deleted.

“This footage you are viewing is from inside CurrencyCorp, from a month earlier. Cameras captured video of this man entering the building and quickly leaving. An anonymous tip off has given evidence that this man was instrumental in the carnage of last week.” The male reporter leaned forward a little, looking professionally concerned.  “Police sketch artists have released a facial composite of the man known as The White Collar Killer. Any citizens spotting suspicious individuals matching this man’s description in the greater London area are urged to…”

The facial composite flashed onto the screen, and Arthur almost dropped the remote.

Sure, the nose was a little more hooked, the freckle missing from underneath his right eye, and overall the artist gave Arthur more scars on his face than he could ever take credit for, but the likeness was there. Undoubtedly, the facial composite was of him.

“The subject in question is described as being Caucasian, male, and having a stature between - ”

Arthur shut off the television. He had seen enough. Iris stood next to him, staring blankly at the TV. “Was that - that was - ”

“That was me,” Arthur finished, standing. “I’ll be back,” he said to Iris, stepping towards the front door.

“Where - where are you going?!” Iris called to him. The front door slammed shut in response.

Arthur stood on the front step in the middle of the thunderstorm. It was raining so profusely that he couldn’t even spot the end of the driveway. He walked off the front step and out onto the lawn, heedless of the lightning streaking in great arcs through the night sky.

“It wasn’t raining like this in Eames’ interview,” Arthur said out loud to himself. “I wish it was like earlier.” He began to snicker, and then to laugh. “No, I wish it was like 10 years ago!” Arthur’s bandages were now beyond soaked, his pants were a lost cause, and his stitches were probably ruined underneath it all. But he didn’t care, because he was near hysterics.

Not only had a video of him been broadcasted to every news outlet in the U.K., but descriptions and sketches of himself were available to all the news providers as well.

Arthur was well and completely fucked, and he knew it.

The worst part was, Eames had been trying to protect him, even today. He had tried to dissuade the reporters from connecting the dots between various crime scenes, to throw the media off Arthur’s scent. Arthur had heard the double meaning loud and clear behind Eames’ speech to the smitten newscaster. Eames had been warning Arthur a shitstorm was brewing, and that Arthur was in the middle of it. He knew Arthur, or at least his mother, would be watching that specific broadcast, because, as Iris said, she watched the same thing every night. He wouldn’t have been sure yet that Arthur would see they were looking for a specific killer. Eames had even gone so far as to warn Arthur he was going to need to do ‘research’ - with someone tipping off the authorities about Arthur’s involvement, and Sandy’s failure to erase Arthur from the CurrencyCorp video logs, Eames had known events were conspiring that neither Arthur nor himself even had an inkling of. Arthur was in the dark about his own crime scene.

Arthur flashed back to the present, to the rain falling out of the sky above him. His legs were coated in flecks of mud from the rapidly-forming puddles of the front yard, and his hands lay limply at his side. He fingered his totem, rolling the die in his palm. Arthur was almost disappointed when he could make out three dots through the dark. Shoving his totem back into his pants, Arthur squinted out into the darkness once more, able to see the outline of Eames’ gnome. Satisfied the home was safe, _or at least as safe as it can be with me in it_ , Arthur disappeared back into the house, his mind already ten steps ahead, gearing up for a long night of research and answers.

Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t notice the way the gnome was tilted slightly to the left, out of its normal position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, shout out to domlerrys for my first every piece of [FANART](http://domlerrys.tumblr.com/image/143352776462)! I'm so excited! I've probably said this before, but all and every type of fanart is appreciated by me. I have no artistic bone in my body (besides some writing) and I love all interpretations.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far! I have to say, this chapter holds a special place in my heart. For the writers out there, another reason dialogue and I have a love-hate relationship is that it takes so long to write! Ugh.
> 
> Comments and kudos make me write faster!


	17. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back :)  
> This would be a good time to make sure you've looked at the tags.
> 
> Happy Reading.
> 
> <3

 

 

 

**_10 Years Ago_ **

 

 

Arthur’s feet were killing him. The heat seared through his boots, exacerbating the already painful state of the blisters popping along the surface of his skin. On top of that, he had a splitting headache and his 2nd-in-command, Bradley, had just informed them they would be black on water soon. _Fantastic. Now I can learn what it feels like to die of dehydration._

Really, Arthur just wanted to go home.

But he couldn’t.

Because this was his home. Home was wherever his men were, his squad. _The only thing I have left._

And right now, his squad of twelve was in another dreamscape, another barren desert. A merciless pit of sand and heat and misery that reminded Arthur a little too much of his previous tours in Afghanistan and Iraq.

In fact, this mission was no different from any of the others he had suffered through.

Nothing had changed.

Except for one thing.

Arthur knew that whatever happened, whether his men completed their objective or not, whether they successfully saved each other from any more atrocities, each and every one of them would die. Perhaps slowly. Perhaps quickly.

Arthur knew war.

He knew the rapid fire, the endless discharge of a Browning M2HB, a barrage of bullets mowing down anything in their path. Arthur could clearly smell the barrels of burning shit, of human feces, a task the higher-ups never told the men they would have to perform. Arthur would never forget the sound of an RPG hitting the guard post, the scene of a disfigured body crawling from the rubble, legs completely blown off.

Arthur knew survival.

He could remember the most haunting mornings of his life, waking up endless hours before the full heat of the sun. He could identify the chanting. Thousands of people, an endless sea of humanity, saying their prayers in unison in the distance. And Arthur would sit on his rack, staring at the whites of the man’s eyes across from him, knowing that most of those people saying those prayers were wishing for his death.

Arthur knew that nobody won.

That after the smoke cleared, that after the doors had been kicked in and the enemy movement suppressed, there was no winner. There were losers, though. The civilians that got in the way.

No matter how many insurgents they took out, no matter how many raids were successfully conducted, there were always more. Like a snake, a hydra, an endless replicating and multiplying beast, enemies just came back, filled with ruthlessness and selfishness and savagery. Arthur would go back to his post and the same civilians who had laughed with him in Pashto would be massacred the next week, never to speak again, desecrated and left to die on the straw mats of their homes.

Arthur had _seen_ death. A fact recruiters never thought to tell him – Arthur would see more suicides in three deployments than he thought he would even hear about in his lifetime.

Arthur learned a lot of things as a soldier, but he didn’t _know_ death. Not personally. Not until he joined Project Somnacin.

Then he knew death intimately. And it was not what he expected.

Dying was not graceful. It was not courageous. People didn’t say their last words, their goodbyes. It was not dignified. Arthur had enemy combatants beg for their lives in front of him, and they didn’t look like the enemy. They looked like men. They looked like his friends. They were not superhuman, the embodiment of evil. Many of them were simple villagers, paid sums by the Taliban amounting to a few dollars, all to kill the invaders.

Soldiers would piss and shit and cry and scream, all while in the last of their death throes. Or, worse yet, just disappear. In the fiery orange cloud of an IED, in the earth-shattering collapse of a building. Gone in the dust.

Dying was not a refined passing, a heroic crossing of rainbow-hued bridges and brilliant bursts of light.

No.

Dying was painful.

And Arthur knew it firsthand.

 

***

 

It had all been very clandestine, even for SpecOps. Arthur had been dragged out of his rack in the middle of the night by a knock at his door. When he opened it, there stood an unfamiliar captain, a brunette with a tight bun and unfamiliar face.

“Lieutenant, you’re ordered to report to the base commander.”

Arthur squinted at the interruption to his sleep, and saluted, glancing down surreptitiously to make sure he had his PT gear on. “Yes, Captain.” Arthur moved to make a right flank, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He was barely able to stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the intrusion.

“I am charged to escort you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur replied, and followed the woman to the commander’s office.

Once there, the only words offered to him by his commander were ‘Good luck, Lieutenant’ before Arthur was ordered to follow another soldier. The man’s countenance was stony, foreboding. They traveled down several flights of stairs, farther under the base than Arthur had ever traveled before. His hastily laced boots squeaked against the rough tiles, the end of one errant lace clacking rhythmically. Arthur was too tired to ask the man to formally stop, and for some reason he got the feeling the soldier wasn’t in the mood for a delay.

There was a strange sort of tension clinging in the air as Arthur followed the major. He didn’t even come to a stop as they passed a metal door, only slowed in his stride, pointing. Nodding to Arthur in a silent order to enter, the man disappeared down the hallway, vanishing completely around a corner.

Arthur stood there for a second, dumbfounded. It dawned on him that he was alone in an unknown area of the military base, half-asleep and without backup. He was without orders or directions, and, looking down, Arthur remembered he was still clad in his rumpled PT gear. _What a night._

Arthur pulled at the metal door hesitantly, automatically keeping clear of the opening. As he opened the door to its fullest extent, Arthur looked inside, hand instinctively reaching for his flashlight, his gun, his knife, _something_. But he had no supplies, and was only faced with a plain room, dimly lit. _If my men are trying to pull another goddamn practical joke on me because of my promotion - but no, the commander was involved, they wouldn’t -_ Arthur’s thoughts suddenly cut off as something latched onto the back of his shirt.

Instinctively, Arthur twisted. He caught a glimpse of digitals, of a uniform. He reached to tear off the grip, but a heavy force rammed into him from another angle, shoving his body back into the foreign room. The door clanged shut in front of him as Arthur scrambled forward, and stars popped into his vision as the heavy weight slammed directly onto his face.

A crack echoed throughout the empty room and Arthur stumbled back, hands clutching his wounded face. Blood streamed from his nose.

Recovering his balance, Arthur rushed forward, ready to wrench open the door and meet his adversaries. His hands slammed against the grey metal in front of him, fists clenched.

“What the hell?” He shouted. His palms trailed over the grey paint, flummoxed.

There was no handle.

Arthur felt along the seams of the door. The current of blood from his nose had slowed to a trickle, staining his hands as he pressed his palms against the door's cold surface.

Arthur was angry, furious with his confusion and ignorance. _Is this some kind of fucked up indoctrination? They swore after the qualification course we were done with this shit._

After exhausting every possible idea of escape, Arthur concluded the only option was to press forward, into the room. He turned around, staring into the gloom.

His eyes had deceived him. What had looked to be a room turned out to be another passageway, another hallway. _Well, I have nowhere else to go._

Arthur began walking, steps slapping against the bare concrete. The only sounds were the irregular splash of blood on the cold floor and the clacking of his loose shoelace. _My nose is probably broken,_ he realized, noting the spreading ache. _Again._

Arthur walked for at least twenty minutes until he came upon another door nearly identical to the previous one. This time, though, there was a slim handle.

Squaring his shoulders and wiping away some dried blood, Arthur pushed his way inside.

Inside turned out to be a huge white room, reminiscent to an airplane hangar.

Instead of planes, the space was filled with people. Quickly tallying up the buzz cuts, Arthur counted over one hundred and twenty men milling around, at least three platoons. _Everyone's dressed differently. I see ASUs, BDUs, even PT gear. But there's no one ranking below an E-4 here, which is... interesting._ Arthur’s mind was racing, searching for a pattern. _What are we doing here? Wait - who are half of these people?_ Arthur thought he knew everyone in his barracks, at least by face, if not by name. _Obviously I was mistaken._ He pushed through the throng of voices, searching for someone, anyone, even remotely familiar.

Desperate, Arthur began to call names from his squad. “Eckhaus? Bradley? Hughes?” Arthur pushed against the uncertain tide, bumping against someone’s back. He apologized tersely, frustrated at the unknown faces. No one even looked twice at Arthur’s bloodstained attire, too preoccupied with finding their own friends.

Arthur kept walking, pacing, until a grey patch flashed in his peripheral vision, crossed silver arrows catching his eye. Arthur looked up from the familiar insignia, relief washing over him. “Lin!” The man turned, confused, but a trace of a smile graced his face as he recognized Arthur. It quickly changed to a frown as he took in Arthur’s appearance.

“What fuck happened to your face, man?” Lin moved closer to Arthur, tilting his head slightly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Arthur waved Lin’s concern away. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Lin just shook his head, his dark buzz cut at odds with the sterile environment of the room.

“None of them know,” the man said, gesturing to the throng of people. Lin ran a tense hand down his face, his features twisted in frustration. The soldier had always been the most charismatic of their squad, popular with the women off-base at bars that the men snuck off to. His half-Indian half-Asian features gave him a proud tilt, with strong cheekbones and flawless dark skin. The scar that ran across his nose made him dangerous looking, exotic, although the first time they had met, Lin had made Arthur promise to never tell anyone it was from a childhood bicycle accident.

Lin was not only part of his squad, but one of Arthur’s friends.

“I was pulled from watch, and my relief didn’t know anything either.” Most of the natural color had been leeched from Lin’s face, a sickly looking cast overshadowing his features. Arthur paused at Lin’s words, once again scanning the crowd of soldiers around them. A sense of unease was apparent throughout the group of men, a buzz of disquieted conversation. Arthur looked up towards the bright lights of the ceiling, studying the bulbs. He didn’t see any cameras, but _maybe_ -

And then the lights promptly went out, plunging the men into total darkness. “Shit,” Lin whispered. “What was that?”

“Find the wall.” They crouched down, feeling in front of them. Someone’s arm got in Arthur’s way, and he pushed it aside impatiently, fumbling in the general direction of the wall. Arthur blinked, desperate for some type of sight, but the black of his eyelids stubbornly matched the black in front of him. Finally, finally, his hands hit the smooth surface of the wall. Arthur spotted a sliver of light on Lin’s boots, shining through the legs of the other men. “What is - ”

But Arthur’s query was cut off by a yell, something incoherent. The noise turned animalistic, desperate, and the sound of something heavy crashed to the floor. Arthur recognized the sound, the dull thump. _A body. What the hell?_

Someone else shouted, and the clang of something metal reverberated throughout the room - “ _Someone has a knife_ ,” Arthur spat to Lin, hands out in front of him, readying for a fight. It was hopeless; the room was absolutely devoid of light. Arthur was an experienced fighter, but even he knew how ineffective he would be without sight. “I have no weapons,” Arthur hissed, feeling along the wall behind him. “What’s on you?”

“They took my gun,” Lin rasped back. “I thought it was a training exercise, _shit_ , something - ” Then there was another loud groan, the sounds of skin-on-skin contact. A struggle.

Touching Arthur’s wrist, Lin tugged at the skin, pulling him in another direction. Arthur squeezed the man’s wrist back, understanding the motion. _Find the door._

Arthur kept his right hand on the wall beside him, creeping slowly forward. He could feel Lin’s presence in front of him.

A tense minute went by, and Lin and Arthur’s progress took them to a corner of the room, hitting two perpendicular walls. They continued on, switching tracks, and Arthur was struck with a sense of remembrance. “The door is somewhere around here, I think.” Arthur tried to remember the height of the door knob, his fingers skimming over the wall in front of them. The sounds of fighting were drawer nearer to the two men. Soon they would be pulled into the altercation, willing participants or not.

“Here,” Lin declared quietly, and Arthur’s arm was guided across the man’s body. With Lin’s help, his hand closed around something cold. Arthur sighed in relief as his fingers felt the outline of the cool handle.

But - something was wrong. The placement of the knob was far too low, and the grooves felt different, rougher - _cylindrical_?

Arthur shoved Lin back at the revelation, intimately acquainted with the object in front of him. He opened his mouth to tell Lin to duck for cover.

He never got the chance.

The air was shattered with the sounds of gunfire, screams echoing in the inky gloom. Bullets tore through Arthur like a piñata, searing through his skin like personified agony. He opened his mouth, falling back. Blood poured out of his throat instead of words, the liquid metallic and bitter on Arthur’s tongue. He stumbled, hands scrambling.

The last thing Arthur felt was Lin’s body, motionless and cooling on the slick ground.

Arthur woke up in a cold sweat, needle tearing from his arm, vomit spewing everywhere. Tears blurred his vision as he stumbled across the room, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He threw off the arms blocking his path, blood trickling down his skin as he gasped desperately for air.

The wound smarted, marking the beginnings of a scar.

His first needle scar.

Arthur was officially part of Project Somnacin.

 

***

 

Arthur slung his canteen off his pack, unscrewing the tightly sealed lid with a twist of his gloved hands. Sweat dripped down the side of his face, rolling into the already damp shemagh surrounding his neck. The digital pattern blurred in his vision, blending in with the dark tan sand below.

Arthur shook off his disorientation, taking stock of his squad. The eleven men marching beside him looked strung out, hyperaware of their surroundings. They were all on high alert, M4s in hand as they plowed through the elements. By Arthur’s count, they had been in this particular dreamscape for over four days now, although it felt like the longest mission yet.

The mission was to sneak into the village undetected, where they were tasked with infiltrating the insurgent’s operation, and stealing the information related to their movements.

Arthur, nor the rest of his squad, had no idea what to expect in way of resistance. He didn’t know how many men were waiting for them, or how heavily fortified the main compound was. _In a word, we’re fucked,_ Arthur thought. But their higher-ups loved to do that - throw them into a dreamscape with little to no actual information. They disgusted Arthur, playing with his men’s lives like they were toys to be manipulated. It was horrifying.

But Arthur wasn’t worried about living adversaries at the moment. He was preoccupied by something else.

Arthur had noticed the temperature dropping, fast. Normally a cause for celebration, the swift reversal also brought the heralding of clouds in the distance - huge collections of vapor that Arthur couldn’t ignore - they rolled towards the team, ominous and dark. Squinting through his regulation sunglasses, Arthur could see sand ahead of them kicking up hard and fast. _That’s no regular sandstorm._ Swearing under his breath, Arthur pulled his shemagh up tighter over his nose and mouth. He signaled to Bradley, his motions urgent, tight.

Bradley jogged over to Arthur, pulling down his scarf. He greeted Arthur, glancing at the sky behind them. Arthur saw Bradley’s lips move but through the rising winds, the man’s words were lost. Arthur placed a hand next to helmet, signaling his problem. Bradley edged closer, an increasingly large frown marring his face.

“I said: Is it a dust storm?”

“No. It’s a Shamal.”

Bradley looked at the approaching clouds with a new sense of animosity. “Fuck.” He cursed. Bradley realized the implications - a Shamal was dangerous, deadly, and fast. Infamous in the real world, the storm was known for stripping paint off military vehicles, ripping walls apart like paper, and tearing buildings off their foundations.

“Be ready,” Arthur said to the rest of the squad through the comms. “It’s a Shamal.”

 

***

 

The wind just got worse, and without reference points, it was near impossible to locate the village through the storm. Arthur was getting frustrated, although he kept it to himself. Other members of the team weren’t so reserved.

“I feel like I’m in a fucking cyclone!” Rhodes barked. “If I wanted to walk through a tornado, I’d‘ve stayed in Kansas!”

“By my estimation, we’re three kilometers out,” Ali reported. “Once we find the village, we’ll have to slip in by way of the northern perimeter. Assuming - ”

“Stop,” Lund said suddenly, cutting through Ali’s report. The entire squad ground to a halt immediately. Arthur swept their perimeter again, confused by Lund’s outburst.

“What is it?” Arthur asked through the comms, tense. The wind was horrendous, kicking up dust and all sorts of debris. Brown had already been hit by a particularly large rock, sustaining a sizable injury to the shoulder. _Whoever’s dreaming this up really has it in for us._

“I thought I spotted something at our 3 o’clock,” Lund replied. “Although it was probably just a flying goat, Jesus, all this dust.” At his words, the squad immediately looked towards their right, their eyes straining across the uneven terrain. The landscape was a mix of dunes and rocks, soil and boulders, and the Shamal made it hard for anyone to differentiate one sand dune from the next.

“Stay sharp, everyone. And pick up the pace.” Bradley’s tone brooked no argument. _He’s been a good Warrant Officer_ _,_ Arthur thought. _In Afghanistan, and now here._

“Let’s just infiltrate the village without any complications,” Iacovelli muttered, his smooth voice cutting through the continuous barrage of sand. “I’m fucking tired of this sand getting in everything. And I mean _everything_.”

“It won’t be like last week,” Lin said, always optimistic. “It won’t go to shit.”

 

***

 

It went to shit.

They had gotten lost, dangerously lost in the storm, and everyone was relieved once they found the village. But now that they were there, breaching the wall, everyone could tell something was off, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what.

“I hear gunfire,” Iacovelli remarked, slinging his handgun holster closer to him. “Who the hell would the projections be shooting at, besides themselves?”

“Must be a new type of training they’re springing on us,” Graves muttered, swinging down from the wall, his tactical vest clanking. “At least it sounds far off.”

“Right then,” Arthur began, once everyone was safely over the perimeter. “We’ll reach the compound in an echelon formation.” Arthur waved Bradley closer to him, already worried about the added complication of walking blind into a firefight. “We’ll have to -”

Several dull _thuds_ sounded from next to Arthur, and he was sliding away on instinct, his gun already out.

“ENEMY FIRE! FIND COVER!”

The men scattered, and through Arthur’s vantage point, he could see that Eckhaus was down, his form motionless in the swirling sands. Arthur sprinted forward, grabbing a handful of Eckhaus’ uniform. Lin was at his side in an instant. “Pull!” Arthur ordered, wielding his gun in his dominant hand. Lin scrambled back with him, dragging the Eckhaus’ limp form.

More shots, but this time from beside Arthur, and he recognized Hughes’ Barret rifle. He quickly looked back, trying to find an obstacle large enough to shelter the three of them. Spotting a beaten-up vehicle, Arthur pulled even faster at Eckhaus’ body.

“Oofph!” Arthur whipped his head back at the pained intake of breath. Lin was forced to a knee, his hand clasped over his arm. “I’ve been hit,” he grit out.

Arthur backpedaled even faster, this time not only dragging Eckhaus, but supporting Lin as well. Grit sprayed his boot as a bullet burrowed into the sand next to him. Arthur aimed as best he could, retracing the bullet’s trajectory and shooting back through the raging wind.

Finally, with one last heave, Arthur slid them all behind the car. He ripped off Eckhaus’ vest, simultaneously shaking off his right glove. Slightly shaking, Arthur’s stiff fingers reached for Eckhaus’ neck. There was no pulse.

“Shit,” Arthur whispered, shifting the man’s body aside. He turned to Lin, his gaze fixing on the man’s bloody arm. Arthur dragged Lin back from where the man was ducking around the car, aiming with his Beretta. “Let's wrap that,” Arthur said roughly, searching through his pack. “Here,” Arthur held out a piece of fabric, ready to bind the wound. “We need to find Lund,” Arthur stated, referring to their medical sergeant.

“No, sir,” Lin said, his voice betrayed by pain. He brushed off Arthur’s help, taking the bandage for himself. “Talk to Bradley. Figure out who the hell is shooting at us. Worry about me later, Lieutenant.”

Arthur glanced one more time at Lin, shaking his head. “Bradley, report.”

“...Lieutenant,” Bradley sounded out of breath and somber. “Iacovelli and Ali are down. Brown and Eckhaus aren’t reporting and Dalecki was hit in the femoral artery, from what Lund can tell.”

“Eckhaus is out, Bradley. Lin and I dragged him behind cover, but Lin was shot in the process. Is everyone else under cover?”

“I can’t see anything through this wind, but I think so.”

“How could we have missed this?” Arthur asked, more to himself. He had six men left, and they weren’t even close to the compound.

“We need to get out of this position,” Bradley said. “It’s obvious there are snipers above, picking us off.”

“Do you think this was a planned ambush?” Lin asked, his voice still layered with pain. “We’ve never run a simulation like this before.”

A chunk of the metal flew off next to Arthur’s head, and he ducked to avoid the shrapnel. He shot back, squinting to see silhouettes through the wind and debris. The Shamal was gaining so much speed that clothes and mats and other light objects from nearby houses were being dragged outside, cluttering the air around them.

“Dalecki’s as good as dead,” Lund reported, sounding defeated. “He went into shock from the blood loss, and he’s not responding to any stimuli.”

“Right then,” Arthur said, quickly feeling control of the situation slipping through his fingers. “We need to get to the compound. Bradley will lead a dog leg - ”

“ - I’ll take Lund, Rhodes, and Graves,” Bradley assented. “We’ll feint to the west and hopefully suppress fire - ”

“ - while Hughes, Lin, and I go to the compound to the east,” Arthur finished. “Hughes can set up a position for his sniper rifle and stay behind when we go in. Everyone clear?”

“Clear.”

Time felt simultaneously frozen and wrenched into fast forward for Arthur, just as it always did when he was in combat. There was no time for second-guesses, for calculations, and yet somehow he still had time left over to obsess over every single one of his men left standing.

“Let’s go,” Arthur stated, readying his M4.  He ducked out behind the car once more, but could spot nothing through the swirling grime. “At my signal then. 1, 2, 3. **GO GO GO**!”

The men shot at once from behind their positions, M4s firing off at an erratic clip. Arthur pushed off from behind his own position, sediment blinding him. He couldn’t make out anyone at the top of buildings in front of him, but he discharged his weapon anyway. Next building in sight, Arthur moved in a crouch to the right, keeping as low to the ground as possible.

He could barely make out two other members of his squad in front of him. _I just hope that’s Hughes and Lin._

Intermittent bangs rang out as bullets whizzed past Arthur, peppering the dirt in front of him. The wind whistled in Arthur’s ears, doing funny things to his equilibrium.

He tumbled behind the next wall of dirt, aiming the barrel of his M4 over the precipice. As he secured his weapon, Arthur spared himself a second of pause, spotting a familiar uniform on the ground next to him. At first, he thought it was Hughes, aiming with his Barret rifle in a prone position, and Arthur thanked his lucky stars the man had found him.

But as Arthur reached out, grasping the man’s shoulder and yelling through the storm, he realized it was Brown’s collapsed body, his whole side destroyed by a volley of gunfire. Blood and bits of skin seeped out from below the man, pieces of pink in the puddle marking the remnants of the man’s destroyed organs.

Arthur resisted the bile rising in his throat, forging ahead. He ducked over his flimsy barrier to aim his M4. The rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun blasted Arthur’s left ear as he pressed his own finger against the trigger.

“GOT ONE, BOYS!” Rhodes crowed into the communications. “I saw a body fall!”

A blur of a uniform leaped to Arthur’s right, and he was suddenly joined in his ditch by Hughes, rifle out and blood across his face. “I’m moving to the next structure,” Hughes said, reloading his Barret rifle. “I spotted a place where I can return fire, and God knows we need a sniper with a scope on our side right now.” Arthur had barely nodded his assent before the man raced off behind him.

Arthur covered their sniper, letting loose enough bullets to suppress enemy movements for a time. Squinting in the wind, he thought he saw the camouflage of another uniform flash by, one not from his squad. Arthur quickly shook off the vision. _The projections always wear the same nondescript clothes,_ he thought. _The Shamal is just messing with my head._

Minutes later, Lin slid to join Arthur, breathing hard. The bandage Arthur had given him was haphazardly wrapped around his right bicep, already soaked through. “It seems they’ve given up for a little while,” the man huffed, unjamming his weapon.

“Let’s just hope it stays that way,” Arthur replied, on edge. “The compound is at least a mile away.” The way it was howling through the village, the storm made it impossible to have complete quiet, but Arthur couldn’t hear any gunshots close by. _That could be a very good thing, or a very bad thing._

Unlike the Hollywood perception of war, Arthur knew crossfire could take time, and the air wasn’t always filled with yelling and explosions. Still, he couldn’t quell his anxiety as he slowly moved further east with Lin, listening with one ear to Bradley’s progress.

Hughes was moving as well, trailing behind the two men, sighting the enemy from building to building with the scope of his rifle. “You’re not going to believe me, Lieutenant, but I’d bet my farm back home I just spotted a British SAS uniform.”

“Did you hit him?” Lin replied tersely, giving Arthur a hand up onto the next round of rocks.

“No,” Hughes said, sounding disappointed. “The projection, soldier, whatever -  _fuck_ , was involved in another engagement. He was too far away for me to get a proper sight on him through the storm, and I don’t think we want to reveal our position just yet.”

Arthur was uneasy with all the conflicting information, but he kept it to himself. “Speaking of which, Hughes, put your rifle away and get the hell down here with us. It seems we’re launching a three-man attack on the compound now... for better or for worse.”

Lin and Arthur hopped over the next round of walls separating two stone houses. Arthur made a signal for Lin to stop next to him as they waited for Hughes.

“These houses are all empty,” Arthur remarked, ducking around an open archway. He looked inside of the home, walking in further, inspecting the intricate tapestry on the wall and the crumpled mats on the floor. “It makes me wonder if - ” Suddenly the side of the house shook as something slammed into it, a dust cloud erupting near the entrance of the door.

Arthur sprinted towards the front and careened around the corner. Lin was struggling against another soldier, the man’s larger frame dwarfing him. Lin’s M4 suddenly was ripped off him, skittering across the sand. The two men were locked in a chokehold against the mud walls. Lin briefly got the upper hand, rolling to knock the other soldier back against the wall, but that was when the man took out a deadly combat knife, aiming right for Lin’s throat. Arthur rushed forward.

Lin parried the man’s wild swing, kicking, and Arthur lunged, stabbing the man in the side with his utility knife.

The unknown soldier howled, releasing his grip on Lin, and Arthur dragged his blade out from the man’s ribs. Seizing the man’s vest in a brutal grip, Arthur spun him around until he could grab his helmet. Batting away the man’s weak protests, Arthur swung his knife forward one more, burying it to the hilt in the man’s unprotected neck.

It was all over in a second. Arthur released the man’s body, letting it fall to the ground. He wiped at his face, sweat dripping in rivulets, and Lin swiped at his own forehead, breathing hard. “What - what - the - ” the darker skinned man gasped, wheeling back to pick up his M4. “ - what in the fucking hellwas that?”

Arthur bent down to flip over the man’s body, inspecting the uniform.

“That’s a Russian uniform.” Hughes’ voice sounded over Arthur’s shoulder, his combat boots appearing next to Arthur’s arm. “I tried to get here as soon as possible. I’m seeing men all over, Lieutenant - and none of them are wearing the typical clothing of the projections.”

Arthur stood up from his crouch, absentmindedly readjusting his helmet. Arthur pressed a button on his comms that would contact Bradley directly. “Bradley, report.”

Silence.

Arthur tried again. “Bradley. Chief.”

Silence.

A cold weight settled over Arthur’s shoulders. “Let’s go,” Arthur said to the two men.

They were approaching the full heat of the main firefight when it happened. The three men had successfully evaded any other sort of contact, barring a projection Arthur had silently dispatched with his pistol.

Arthur had been calculating the best way to scale the building ahead when two rapid black blurs flashed in his vision. They hit the ground, rolling right in the path of the three men.

As if in slow motion, Arthur eyes tracked the ridges of the devices. He pushed Lin into the open doorway of the nearest building, and turned back, intending to do the same to Hughes.

But the man was absent from his place next to Arthur.

Instead, Hughes had rushed forward, towards the live grenades.

“GET BACK! GET BACK YOU DUMBASS! THAT’S A FUCKING ORDER!”

But Arthur had no choice but to dive for cover as he yelled, jumping back behind another mud wall. The sounds of dual explosions rocketed through Arthur’s ears, one after the other - and suddenly his leg was on fire, blinding torrents of pain streaking up his limb.

He huddled behind the broken fragments of mud, barely able to muffle the screams that threatened to erupt from his mouth.

Squinting through the pain, Arthur looked down at his leg.

Fragments from one of the grenades had lodged themselves in his calf, peppering his uniform with holes. " _Arhhhggh_ ,” Arthur screamed, biting into his shemagh. “Oh  _God._  Oh, no.” It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, tiny shards of metal worming their way into his calf muscle. He laid against the wall for what seemed like hours, clutching his leg, in utter agony.

“Lieutenant?” Lin appeared, heaving himself over the wall next to Arthur. He stopped, spotting Arthur’s leg, the tattered bottom of his uniform pants. “Oh - Arthur.” Lin crouched down, fumbling with something from his bag. “Here, this might - this might help for a little while.” He sprayed the contents of an aerosol can onto the wound, and Arthur tried to get away on instinct, panicking, the cold spray only making the pain more intense. “Just wait,” Lin soothed, his arm barring Arthur from crawling away. “Give it a second, Lieutenant.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, just long enough for him to compose himself. Surprisingly, after he forced himself to open them again, the pain in his leg was bearable, almost - “Numbing agent - experimental,” Lin said, inspecting Arthur’s leg. “There aren’t any fragments large enough for me to remove right now, but at least you can go longer with this. Lund gave it to me.”

Arthur adjusted his sidearm, checking to make sure the safety was off his M4, and straightened his sunglasses, looking anywhere but at Lin. He was embarrassed to have lost his composure, even for a moment. “Thank you, Sergeant. I assume Hughes - Hughes took the worst of the blast?”

Lin seemed surprised at Arthur’s formality, but took it in stride. “Yes, Lieutenant. Sergeant Hughes sacrificed himself, absorbing most of the fragments. I already checked - he was kicked back to the surface.” _He’s dead_ seemed to be at the tip of Lin’s tongue, but the man stopped himself. “What are your orders?”

Arthur stared at Lin a second, his thoughts a mess. _Bradley’s unresponsive, Hughes is dead, I’m useless…_ “You need to continue on by yourself, Sergeant.” 

“I - what - Lieutenant - my M4’s jammed - and you - ” They weren’t the Marines, but Arthur had always instilled the tenant of never leaving a wounded comrade behind.

“Go,” Arthur ordered. “I’ll just slow you down, and there’s… something I need to check on. Take my gun and ammo instead, that way you don’t violate protocol.” Everyone knew you could just dream up more bullets and weapons, but the government insisted on ‘realism’ in the dream world, to Arthur’s disgust. “I won’t be needing it. That’s an order, Sergeant. Head to the compound.”

Lin stared at Arthur a moment more, placing the can of numbing agent by the fallen soldier’s side. He hesitantly took Arthur’s M4. Both of them knew a projection would find Arthur eventually, and where there was one, there were more. Arthur was essentially killing himself.

“Goodbye, Lieutenant.”

“Goodbye, James.” Lin started a little at his name, but raised the M4 in a salute. He vanished around the corner, back into the fray.

As soon as the man left, Arthur sprayed his leg once more, throwing the can to the side. _Another one of the military’s wonderful ideas, tested on us in the dream world._ He grit his teeth, painfully levering himself to his feet. “Uugh,” Arthur grunted. His leg was completely numb now, and although mostly painless, clumsy and awkward.

Stumbling a little at first, Arthur crept from one obstacle to the next. Breathing heavily, eventually Arthur made it to a crumbling wall of sediment on his right. Pointedly ignoring the carnage that was Hughes’ body, Arthur kept going, moving farther and farther away from their intended route.

Looking up, Arthur realized he was at the spot he wanted to investigate. And looking up once more, Arthur realized he had been right.

In the chaos, gunshots had been all over, especially towards the city center. But Arthur had heard the sound of a rifle through the storm, a closer noise.

With all the confusion, Arthur hadn’t felt the need to mention it - _hell, I could've fucking dreamt it up, with how jumpy I am._ He had decided to focus on the mission at hand, focus on the objective. But now, Arthur suddenly had time on his hands, and he figured trying to find the source of the sound was as good of a task as any - and maybe try to interrogate a rogue projection in the process. _That is, if he is one,_ Arthur thought.

He heaved himself up onto the scaffolding of the building, his injured leg giving a distressed twitch. Slowly, Arthur made his way up level by level, Beretta in hand. It was his only other firearm, with five bullets left in the magazine. _Great. Of course. The mission where we're not supposed to see heavy combat, and here I am._

Soon, Arthur was at the lip of the rooftop.

He peered over the edge, gun first. Sure enough, there was a sniper, aiming towards the main theater at the center of the village. _Smart, staying this far back from the fighting. Almost too smart for a projection._ Sneaking a peek once more, Arthur recognized the rifle as an ASM-DT, a Russian model. _And a Russian uniform,_ Arthur thought. _More and more interesting._

Now that he was at a higher elevation, Arthur could feel the Shamal kicking up again, severely changing the weather around them. Arthur wondered how the sniper could even sight through the distraction, but his mind flashed back to training, where Hughes hit the ‘O’ of a label from over two hundred yards away. _Anything is possible with those freaks of nature._

Arthur also knew that, just like Hughes, the man would be intensely concentrating - the perfect target to ambush. _And to interrogate, and to figure out what the hell is going on._ Arthur heaved himself up, silently, onto the rooftop itself. Keeping his Beretta out, Arthur unsheathed his knife with the other hand.

He snuck towards the sniper, the Shamal concealing any ambient sound. He was ready to lunge, to subdue the man with his knife.

Right as he was about to pounce, Arthur paused abruptly in his attack, wrenching himself back. The sniper had reached for a handgun, and was now aiming right below them, towards someone below the building. _That better not be Lin!_ Arthur lunged forward, panicked, and the man rounded on him.

Arthur congratulated himself as he knocked the gun out of the man’s hand, but before he could fire his own - thoughts of overpenetration and hitting the mysterious person below running through his mind - the man gave a savage growl, and knocked them both over the side of the building, his Beretta falling through the air, out of his grip.

Arthur’s head hit hard as they broke through scaffolding, crashing through to a layer below. His leg raged and stars burst in his vision, but Arthur lunged again, slashing with his knife. Clipping the man on the shoulder, they rolled again, off another level of the building.

Arthur’s knife was knocked out of his hand as they collided with the hard ground. His sunglasses were torn askew, and the light blinded him. Arthur landed a good front kick towards the enemy soldier’s chest, but the man climbed back on him with ferocity, punching his face over and over. Arthur struggled to get his guard up, his leg screaming for attention as the man’s weight crushed the bone.

Arthur bucked his hips, trying to dislodge the soldier’s weight off his stomach. Blows rained down hard as he swung back, his brain rushing with adrenaline as air refused to enter his lungs.

Then the man was torn off, and Arthur gasped for air, weakly rolling onto his stomach. He tried to scramble to his feet, to fight, but his leg failed beneath him, and he crashed to his knees, sand from the wind tearing at his eyes. Shots sounded to Arthur’s right, and Arthur almost waited to feel the hit, to feel the impact of his failure.

At the absence of gunshot wounds, Arthur looked up, ready to find his knife.

He found something much different.

The Russian soldier was on the ground, _dispatched by a Mozambique drill_ , Arthur noted - two shots to the chest, one to the head.

The shooter was looting the body, stooping to pick up Arthur’s knife from the ground. Arthur looked around for something to defend himself, but he knew it was hopeless. _A piece of rock isn’t going to stop British SAS._

“That was bloody dumb,” the soldier said, turning so Arthur could read his lips through the raging wind storm. “Although it saved my life.” The man strode over to Arthur, handing him his knife hilt first, along with his sunglasses. “I guess I can’t expect a better plan from a Marine.”

Arthur reached up to grab the dirty knife, once again rocking forward to stand. The man hauled him up by the elbow, shaking his head as he took in Arthur’s leg. He tsked, taking a knee to inspect it.

“I’m not a Marine,” Arthur said finally. He watched the man get back to his feet. “And you should know about bad plans - ‘he who dares, wins’.” The SAS motto fell off of Arthur’s tongue, unfamiliar and awkward.

Arthur couldn’t tell through the man’s black shemagh, but if he was pressed to guess, the larger British soldier was smiling. “What are you then - don’t tell me - some poor sod, straight out of basic?” The man helped Arthur behind another building, reloading another magazine into his gun. Arthur, weaponless, eyed the man’s Heckler & Koch enviously. He leaned against the wall, grateful for the reprieve.

“I’m a Green Beret,” Arthur replied shortly, tapping the patch on his shoulder as he cleaned his knife on the fabric of his good leg. “And I’m still not convinced you’re not some new bastardization of a projection, sent to kill me in new fun ways.” The man snorted, pausing in his motions. He pulled off his sunglasses, and Arthur resisted the urge to fidget.

The soldier’s eyes were brilliant in the Shamal, fractals of emerald and topaz in a sea of sand.

He looked Arthur at a moment, long and hard. Arthur stared back, assessing, evaluating just as the other soldier did. The other man was the first to break eye contact, shrugging the tension off with a laugh. “Green Beret?” The SAS soldier shook head. “I was under the impression that they could have beards, mate. You have peach fuzz.”

Arthur just rolled his eyes, shoving his sunglasses back on. He jerked his chin towards the center of the village, where the gunfire still raged. “ _Captain,_ I’m less worried about the state of my facial hair and more about my surviving men, if there are any. What the fuck is going on?”

The man just looked at Arthur, shaking his head. “We’re fighting the Russians. And losing. Bloody badly. This was my last ditch attempt, to kill the snipers, but - ” The soldier inclined his head towards where Arthur had fallen, taking out the enemy gunman. “Obviously it’s not going that well.”

“You’re real SAS? A man, I mean,” Arthur broke off, unsure how to convey his question. “Not a projection, a fake.”

“This isn’t reality, if that’s what you're asking, mate. This isn’t Iraq.”

“I know it’s a dream!” Arthur exclaimed, frustrated. “But you’re British, I’m American, they’re Russian - and we are all sharing this hellhole… together.”

The man shifted, his shemagh falling lower to reveal full lips, dry and cracked. “I wasn’t even aware the Americans had a program,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t aware anyone beside the Americans had a program,” Arthur replied. His leg gave a twinge, and he slumped further against the wall. He felt the man’s brilliant eyes on him, and straightened automatically, against the pain.

“Let’s go to the rest of my company,” the man suggested, handing Arthur the extra Heckler & Koch. Arthur flushed, embarrassed the soldier had caught him eyeing the weapon, but nonetheless accepted the gun gratefully. “We have a lot to talk about. Of course, that’s if the Spetsnaz doesn’t mow us down.”

“What’s your mission?” Arthur asked, inspecting his borrowed firearm.

“They have some of my men captive.” The British soldier's irritation was evident. “Got themselves seized, the daft blokes.”

“I just watched one of my men fall onto a frag grenade for me. I’d doing anything for them, no matter how idiotic they act.”

The soldier took a drink from his canteen, sweat dripping over his sunburned cheeks. His gaze turned to Arthur’s arm, towards his rank. “That’s a powerful statement, Lieutenant…?” His eyes flicked to where Arthur’s last name should have been printed.

“Arthur.”

“Fair enough,” the SAS soldier replied. “Call me Eames.”

“Alright, Captain Eames.” Arthur pushed off the mud wall with determination. “Do you know what the Green Berets say?”

“No,” Eames replied, pulling down his sunglasses. “But I would love a demonstration, darling.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to state that I take my portrayal of combat very seriously. It's not a game.  
> On a lighter note, my Beta says I accidentally hid a Captain America reference in here. Let me know if you found it :)
> 
> If there's any military jargon I should define, tell me!  
> Although this chapter feels like it's out of left field, I promise it fits.
> 
> Ninja edit: someone on tumblr reminded me to ask for fanart! Any and all interpretations are welcome! My tumblr is the same as my username. :)
> 
> <3


	18. Password

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'll sleep when I'm dead" - probably Arthur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> If you're not following my Tumblr, due to life complications my updates are being switched to every other Sunday. I won't stop until we're done!
> 
> Happy Reading!  
> <3

Arthur didn’t remember coming indoors.

He didn’t remember sitting shirtless onto the sofa, he didn’t remember Iris draping a woolen blanket around his shoulders, and he definitely didn’t remember falling asleep with his head against his chest, nightmares crawling into his subconscious like spiders into a nest.

But he did.

And then he woke up. His head cracked back against the sofa with a start, the heavy blanket spilled off his shoulders, and he fell back into the cushions in a rush.

He flinched as the laptop crashed against the floor.

Arthur sprung up, disoriented, his hands clenching into fists. His blood rushed with adrenaline, and his head pounded, brain still caught up in the moment of his - _dream?_ Arthur’s panic stopped abruptly, and, fists unclenching, he sank back down into the cushions. Hands slightly shaking, Arthur anchored his fingers onto his thighs until they stopped.

This was the second time he had dreamt this week, and for him, unusual would be an understatement. The last time Arthur had vivid dreams like these was before Project Somnacin, before his emergence in the dreamsharing world.  _And that was a long time ago,_ he thought.

Belatedly, Arthur remembered to bend down, his abused stitches protesting as he fetched the laptop from the floor. Arthur ran his fingers over the screen, checking for cracks. From his flailing, the password-required login screen had flared to life, only further reminding Arthur of his bad day.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair, his short curls a stark change from his usual coiffed style. _If only Eames could see me now._ Arthur’s clothes were damp, dirty, and the house was devastatingly quiet. Iris was nowhere in sight, presumably having gone to bed much earlier. _All signs leaning towards the fact that I’ve been sleeping here for quite awhile,_ Arthur thought with a frown. _I hate losing time. This isn’t like me._

Coming to a decision, Arthur leaned forward, grabbing his gifted cell phone off the table. _I need to get something accomplished._

Arthur opened his unfamiliar contacts screen, where the only entry was ‘ _Your Guardian Angel <3 _’. Arthur frowned, a curl escaping to fall onto his forehead.

After changing the name to read ‘ _Mr. Eames_ ’, Arthur scrolled down to the accompanying number. His thumb hesitating over the digits for just a second.

Arthur pressed call.

Eames picked up on the third ring.

“Do you ever sleep, love?” Eames’ voice was gravelly, tired, yet laced with his usual amative timbre. _Do I even hear some reproach in his voice? Who knew Eames would be a mother hen,_ Arthur thought.

“It’s not that late, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, squinting at a clock on the wall. The clock hand seemed to mock him, resting squarely between the one and the two.

“It’s half past one in the bloody morning, Arthur.”

“Why are you talking so quietly, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asked, smoothly changing the subject.

“Don’t distract me, darling. But I’ll have you know, David and Andrea found some wine lying about after we returned from the crime scene earlier, and…” Eames’ accent lulled Arthur into a stupor, and he stared at the laptop screen in front of him. He typed in another password. _Mombasa._ Red warning letters flashed in front of him. Arthur rested his head on the illuminated keys, his phone still pressed against his ear.

“ - then they began singing show tunes, really, darling, a little alcohol and apparently anyone can bond over - ” Eames cut off at Arthur’s sigh, audible through the phone’s connection. “Are you listening?” Eames asked. “What’s the matter now, Arthur?”

“Cahf brekh yurr pahthwor,” Arthur mumbled into the laptop.

“Sorry, love, that’s not one of the languages I know.”

“I can’t figure out your stupid password!” Arthur exclaimed, his voice louder than he intended. Arthur looked around guiltily, hoping the noise didn’t rouse Iris.

A slight chuckle sounded from Eames’ end of the line, and Arthur could feel his cheeks heating up. He was glad Eames wasn’t there to witness it. “It’s not funny,” Arthur sulked. “I could’ve gotten work done today. This is serious. I’m wanted for murder, Mr. Eames, in case you forgot. This line better be encrypted, by the way.”

“I know, love, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Eames sounded mildly apologetic. “I’ve taken precautions. I’m just having a laugh because I forgot about that - the password,” the man said. “It seems so long ago I put that in place.

“I know this is serious, Arthur, I was at the bloody crime scene all day - wait, did you get my message on the telly?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied, shaking off the blanket. He rose from the sofa, joints cracking. Still holding the cellphone, Arthur strode over to retrieve Eames’ sweatshirt, the one he had discarded earlier. “ _Mr._   _Johnson_ , very original Eames. I did appreciate the warning, but,” Arthur lifted the article of clothing from the floor, his nose wrinkling at the mud-stained odorous fabric, “after seeing the rest of the broadcast, well, what I surmised was that London is out for my blood.”

“Unfortunately, you would be correct, darling.” Eames sighed through the phone, and loud bed springs creaked in the background. Arthur’s professional mind rationalized the sound was from Eames sitting on his bed, but a part of Arthur flashed back upstairs, to the inviting interior of Eames’ own bedroom. He thought about Iris’ comment earlier, about what happens in bedrooms - _I had enough of that walking in on my son_. Briefly, Arthur thought about what it would be like to be upstairs, under the cover of Eames’ maroon duvet, _sunlight filtering in through the window, Eames beside me_ -

“Arthur? Arthur?” Eames called Arthur’s name, startling him back to the present.

“Yes, Mr. Eames?” Arthur had paused with Eames’ mud-splattered pullover in hand, but at Eames’ voice he moved, his feet guiding him towards the stairway.

“I was talking about the crime scene, but you hadn’t replied - ”

“What did you find out?” Arthur questioned, keeping his feet light up the steps. _I’ve bothered Iris enough today._

“Besides that the London bobbies are the most incompetent, inefficient blokes I’ve had the pleasure of working with in awhile?”

“ _Yes_ , Eames.”

“I think someone is working against us,” Eames said, his voice once again quiet.

“Of course they are,” Arthur replied, entering Eames’ dark room. He hurried over to the closet, picking out a shirt. Hesitating at the doorway, Arthur paced back to snatch a pair of boxers off the top drawer of Eames’ dresser. _Desperate times and all that._ “We know Colin has an army of hired associates trying to track my every move,” Arthur reminded the forger. “And you’re an extension of me, now.”

“No, I mean someone got to the bobbies before us,” Eames said. “They were convinced you were the scum of earth before we arrived, up there with pedophiles and Jeremy Hunt, capable of killing everyone within a hundred kilometer radius. Not to mention evidence against Jansen’s men was suspiciously absent.”

“Well, to be fair, I probably am,” Arthur said, fumbling his way into the dark washroom. He cradled the cell phone against his shoulder while shutting the door and flicking the light switch. Arthur grimaced at the sudden influx of light, blinking his eyes rapidly. “Capable of killing people, I mean, not a pedophile or Jeremy who-ever.” Arthur laid the clean shirt and boxers on the counter in front of him, stripping off his dirty pants. He paused while taking off one of the legs, a thought occurring to him. “Do you believe David or Andrea could have arrived before you? They could be feeding information to the police.” Arthur succeeded in removing his wet pants, and began unwinding the stained bandages that wrapped around his torso.

Arthur could hear a tapping through the phone, a rhythmic beat of Eames’ fingers against the bed while he thought. “Clever, darling.” Eames was quiet a moment. “But both Andrea and David were with me all day leading up to the investigation. I would’ve known if they had gone off. I trust David with my life.”

“You know how much I hate to admit an error, Mr. Eames, but I’m pressed to remind you that I was just betrayed by my co-workers.” Arthur finished undoing the last of his bandages. His hand felt around towards the stitches Iris had fixed on his back. His fingers brushed over the tight bristles - they were miraculously intact, even with his jaunts into the rain. _I’ll take them out soon._

“I’ll look into Andrea, rest assured, darling,” Eames said. “Now, tell me, why is it that you called me in the middle of the night?” Eames shifted once more, bed creaking. “Not that I mind, love. I’ll talk to you anytime.” Eames’ voice was purposefully deeper, full of invitation.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and when he remembered Eames couldn’t see the action, huffed out a breath. He fiddled with the tattered bandage encircling the burn on his arm, turning on the sink. “I still don’t have the password for the laptop, Eames,” Arthur wet a washcloth under the stream of water, peering at his face in the mirror. _I still look pretty terrible,_ Arthur thought, running the wet material over his face. Water beaded in his eyelashes, highlighting the circles under his eyes.

“Oh yes, Arthur. I apologize again for that, love, although I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out.” Eames sounded a little wistful to Arthur, a little teasing. “You were the one who prompted me to memorize it in the first place.”

“Memorize what?” Arthur asked, turning off the faucet. He slipped into Eames’ clean boxers. He held the large shirt in front of him contemplatingly.  _How did he manage to pick such an ugly shade of yellow?_

“Your silly Marines motto,” Eames teased.

Arthur almost dropped the shirt, his mind flashing back to his earlier dreams. _More like memories._ “ _De Oppresso Liber_ ,” Arthur said, a little breathless. He wiggled the cotton material over his head before Eames could hear the catch in his voice.

“ - that’s the one, darling,” Eames said, after a pause. “It lacks a punch if I do say so myself. But I knew it had to mean something to you, for the rumor that you have it tattooed on your arse - ”

“That’s untrue,” Arthur quickly cut in.

“ - so I made it your little password. A bit bloody ironic now, considering you’re the one who needs liberating, darling.”

“You could say that,” Arthur said, his voice soft. “Liberation from this manhunt would be nice.” Arthur paused a moment once back in the hallway, deliberating over his options. _I could go to bed, but now that I can get into the laptop -_

“Thank you, Mr. Eames for… the password. I hope you’ll call again when you have more information?” Arthur’s statement turned into a question, and for some irrational reason his heart tightened as he waited for Eames’ response.

“Of course, darling,” Eames’ voice dipped low again. “I plan on following a lead I received at the crime scene tomorrow, surveying an old warehouse. No drastic action, yet, but I’ll keep you informed. Although I would love some information on Jansen’s motivations - ” Eames stopped, a note of his usual flirtation evident in his tone. “I daresay this vengeance mission is in need of a point man, wouldn’t you agree?”

Arthur let out a huff, his steps already taking him downstairs once more. “I’m already on it, Mr. Eames. Good night.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

 

***

 

Once downstairs, Arthur finally gained access to the computer. He didn’t pause to celebrate. Eames was right, they needed a point man.

  
But if his mind was a little preoccupied with the fact that Eames’ voice conveyed a significant amount of genuine affection - just through his last parting words - well, Arthur was running on a lack of sleep. _Sleep deprivation can cause a wide variance in emotions,_ Arthur reasoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, I took the Myers Briggs test for both Arthur and Eames, and I was pleased with the results.  
> For those uninitaited, the Myers Briggs test is a personality test with 16 possible outcomes that are based in four letters. It's usually very accurate.  
> You can find my full write-ups on my Tumblr for them both- randombitsofstars
> 
> Arthur was an ISTJ and Eames an ENTP by my testing.
> 
> For those interested, I'm an ENTJ :)
> 
> Not completely happy about this chapter. Comments or criticisms would be appreciated.


	19. Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur decides he won't become a stock market analyst anytime soon.  
> Or, alternately, Arthur gets shirtless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart goes out to Orlando.
> 
> Happy reading.<3

It was early morning before Arthur glanced up. Weak rays of sunlight stretched fledgling fingers through gaps in the embroidered curtains, chasing away the dark of the room. Slowly the surface of the coffee table was layered in thin segments of light, rousing Arthur out of his mechanical movements.

Arthur’s eyes traced the path of these soft orange streaks of light. They marked the sunrise, illuminating his wide expanse of paperwork, a voluminous pile organized in a way only he could understand.

It dawned on Arthur that, at this moment, he was experiencing the same feeling that manifested when a job wasn’t going his way; a strained ball of failure twisting knots in his stomach. Arthur had been collecting and profiling information on anything he deemed pertinent to the current situation, yet no eureka moment had been forthcoming. Arthur felt adrift, aimless in a sea of data.

Pausing as he took in the strands of light, Arthur forced himself to stop and evaluate. _Alright. What is my goal? What am I searching for?_

 _First, I know I am wanted for murder._ Arthur had many forms of identification at the ready for himself, and money and resources to assure his escape. _But why is it this time that I am so heavily implicated?_

 _I’m not a novice._ There was a reason why Arthur went only by his first name.

 _So, first - how did I get into this mess? What went wrong during the job?_ Arthur shifted the bandage that covered the burn on his forearm, his mind crashing back to his escape, his meeting with Eames, and finally the confrontation at the cafe. _Eddie is missing_ , Arthur thought. _But that’s not far back enough. The question isn’t what went wrong during the job - it’s the errors made when casing the Jansens, when picking the team._

Arthur flashed back to all of his notes - and then to his err in judgement by letting Sandy handle Colin Jansen’s profile. _The scum_ , Arthur thought, thinking of Sandy’s odd demeanor, her confirmed murders, and finally how she seemed to know all of Jansen’s men. _I assume she was compromised, but she’s not my top priority._ Arthur turned his chin sharply, cracking his neck. _Let’s find out more about the Jansens_ , he thought.

 

***

 

Arthur’s breakfast, courtesy of Iris, cooled next to him as he sat rigid against the back of the couch. A bad taste was forming in the back of his mouth. He didn’t think his disgust for Jansen could grow stronger, but apparently it was possible.

Before Colin Jansen attended college in the United States, Arthur unearthed a document originating from Catterick, North Yorkshire detailing Jansen’s enlistment into the British Army. Further investigation showed another record - Jansen being dishonorably discharged due to accusations of espionage, as well as a sexual assault case. Arthur was appalled at the assault charges, but he was more worried about the possible espionage. _How could someone with so few years in the military be capable of distributing sensitive information? … And why didn’t Sandy mention this?_

 _It’s been a long time since I slipped up like this, letting team members get so out of hand._ Arthur felt another swell of self-loathing rise over him, a sense of revulsion at his incompetence. _The inception job rankled me, I won’t deny it, but that’s no excuse for mistakes._ A sudden urge had  Arthur reaching for his token, hidden under a layer of papers. As he rolled the loaded twin dice, one of the papers was jostled by the action. It fluttered off the table.

Arthur stared at the twin threes a moment before moving, reluctantly retrieving the wayward sheet from the hardwood floor.

At the movement, Arthur noted the stitches in his back protesting only nominally. _Almost time I can take them out,_ Arthur thought. _I’m ready._

Straightening, Arthur glanced at the paper in his grasp.

The bold headline of a newspaper article stared back up at him.

 

**Stock Consultants Sway Investors Towards So-Called ‘Miracle Drugs’**

 

Arthur remembered this piece. He had already scanned this particular write-up weeks before. He had found nothing of note, just another sensationalist report about the uptick in value of medical stocks. The only reason Arthur’s software flagged the article was because it contained the name of a drug that Eva Jansen invested in. _One of the main ones, if I remember correctly… What was the name again?_ Arthur scanned the contents of the article, snorting at the flowery language of the writer. ‘Revolutionary’ ‘outrageously expansive’ ‘the first of their kind’. _This journalist should switch to something other than the business section_ , Arthur thought, rolling his eyes. _Surely the public would have heard more about these pharmaceutical creations if -_

Arthur’s train of thought stuttered as his eyes registered a familiar name. _Eszopiclone_.

_Why is that familiar?_

A quick Google search had Arthur’s eyebrows lifting in disbelief. He wasn’t one to believe in fate, but this was just too rich, even for him. _Somewhere, someone is laughing at the irony of my life._

Eszopiclone, as Arthur discovered, was a sleep aid, a medicine used to treat insomnia. Arthur scrolled down the page listing side effects, noting all the huge companies that produced and sold the prescription. _This doesn’t seem like much of a ‘miracle’. More of a commonplace treatment._

Arthur picked up the news article from the table once more, his sharp eyes trailing back to the line where he had stopped. He finished the rest of the report, his frown growing deeper.

Arthur set the piece of paper back on the coffee table.

He linked his fingers together, resting them behind his head as he thought.

Eszopiclone was mentioned in the column, but it wasn’t the ‘revolutionary’ breakthrough that the author had been praising. Rather, one of the ‘miracle drugs’ was a derivative of this Eszopiclone- a lesser known product called Pergamonium.

 _That was the one Eva Jansen invested in_ , Arthur realized, his mind flashing back to the research of the earlier months. _She believed in this new ‘Pergamonium’, whatever it is - the very same drug that Colin believed would soon rise by 400% in price._ The name had been hidden in Arthur’s subconsciousness, buried by all of the other things that had plagued him recently. _Eva had the money to back the drug… but Colin had the information to believe in it, maybe._

Arthur’s hand shot out abruptly as he reached for a pen, jotting down the name of the drug onto the edge of the article. _Hans was killed because of the wealth that could rise from these ‘miracle drugs’_ , Arthur thought, his mind flashing back to their casual conversations and shared beer. _He didn’t deserve to die for this. But - what is this?_

Arthur thought of a second objective. _Why were the stock codes that could access Eva’s investments so important?_

He surveyed the mound of research that was laid out in front of him, mutely registering the amount of work he had ahead of him. _Analyzing the stock market is not exactly my idea of a good time._ He glanced at the clock on the wall. _Iris will be up soon._

Arthur made a decision, placing the laptop on the table in front of him. He shut it down with a few flicks of his fingers. Stretching as he rose, Arthur felt his muscles protesting at their disuse. _Maybe I’ll make tea for a member of the Eames’ household for once._

 

***

 

He was in the middle of working out when he got the message.

Arthur tended to bottle things up, work himself through a problem no matter the personal cost, physical or mental. He knew this, knew it was unhealthy, and while the military hadn’t given him many benefits in life, it had imprinted one action on him. A release through exercise.

Arthur was on his third rep of fifty push ups. He had already completed a set of one hundred burpees, in between sprinting around the house a good dozen times. Before that, he did a box jump routine using a rock near the house’s edge. Arthur would’ve liked to go for a long run, but he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Iris alone at the mercy of anyone who could track him.

So Arthur settled for push ups.

His eyes were trained on blades of grass in front of him, his sweat dripping to mingle with the dark soil. _Up, down. Up, down._ At the completion of his set, Arthur sprung back to his feet, intent on sprinting to the house where he intended on doing pull ups using the door frame.

“Arthur. _Arthur_!” Iris called, standing in the doorway, an obstacle to his workout.

“What?” Arthur snapped, his politeness vanishing with a rise in his heart rate. “What is it?” Arthur amended, slightly calmer. He raised his sweaty arms above his head, feigning a stretch as his pulse calmed. _I need to get back in shape_ , he thought. _I don’t know if I could pass the minimum requirements for the Green Berets right now._

Iris took in Arthur’s disheveled state as he walked closer, her pink rimmed glasses slipping down her nose. “Getting in a little early morning exercise, love?”

Arthur reached up, retrieving his discarded shirt from around his neck. He patted at his forehead, swiping away sweat from his eyebrows. His skin prickled, hot to the touch.

Arthur briefly glanced up at the sun, unimpressed. “I’ve been up for awhile,” he said. “Did you get the tea I made?”

“I did,” Iris replied. “And I was looking to thank you properly.”

“I can’t begin to thank you for all of your help - the tea is of no consequence, Iris. I’m living in your home, a complete stranger.”

Iris just waved away Arthur’s gratitude, motioning for him to come inside. “But that’s not why I came out here. Your telephone buzzed love. A message from my son, perhaps?”

Arthur was inside before Iris finished her sentence, intent on finding his cell phone. _Eames._

 

***

 

 

> **_E -_ **
> 
> **_@smll pub london need ur advice ip. come asap good news w/johnson stuff_ **
> 
> **_look on cmptr 4 meeting plce. dont b dumb disguise urself k_ **
> 
> **** **** **_c u soon darling_ **

 

Arthur looked at the message on his phone, internally cringing as he tried to decipher Eames’ text. _Are the vowels on his keyboard inoperative?_ Arthur shook his head. _He doesn’t have time to use capitalization or proper grammar, but he can spell out ‘darling’?_

Sitting down once again with his laptop, Arthur mulled over Eames’ shortened words. He would have been skeptical it was actually Eames, except for the file Arthur discovered once he searched the computer.

‘In Case of Separation’ the document was titled, and at first glance only contained an address to a nondescript bar. Scrolling down three pages, Arthur found another message.

 

_Just in case something goes awry in the future and you come back here. I have a feeling once you wake up we’ll have some business to take care of.  Plus, did I mention this place has bloody good pints?_

 

 

_~ Eames_

 

_P.S. This is an example of me having forethought, love. You have accused me of none before, remember? Yet there you are, unconscious in my bed from a bullet wound as I type this. Speaking of which, I should probably move you. What would my mother think if she came home early and found you in my bed? She’d probably be delighted I have friends. I guess I could move you over to my childhood room instead. You’re welcome, darling._

The last edited date on the document was some time ago, correlating to weeks earlier, back to when Arthur first arrived at Eames’ residence. Arthur puzzled over the postscript, realizing Eames ‘childhood room’ was referring to Arthur’s sleeping area now.

Arthur thought about the cheery atmosphere of his current resting place, with pale blue walls and the hand-painted landscape. _Eames’ childhood room_ , Arthur thought. _Who would’ve thought?_

But this idea of going back into London - it was preposterous. Arthur couldn’t dodge every security camera, and not to mention his likeness was plastered over every available news source. _Can’t forget about my recent stunt with the motorcycle when trying to find Eames._ Arthur hadn’t been checking the television in order to preserve his own sanity, but he knew reports of that would come back to him eventually as well. _Stupid. Careless._

 _But I need information, and whatever Eames needs to tell me must be important if he wants me to come._ Arthur once again picked at the bandage on his forearm, the linen damp with sweat. _Eames would understand if I didn’t show._ His hand picked up the phone by his side, and his thumbs hovered over the keys. _It would be easy to send a text, to tell him -_

A thought flitted across Arthur’s consciousness - uncalled for, inadvertent.

 _Eames would meet me if I asked him to, no matter what._ Arthur could hear the man’s voice right next to him, as though the forger was there. “Damn the bloody rules, Arthur! It’s no time to play by the book.”

“Iris?” Arthur called, setting down his phone.

“Yes, dear?” Iris appeared from around the corner, an open book in hand.

“Would you mind removing the stitches from my back?” Arthur questioned. “I have some business I’d like to attend to in London, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”

Iris set her novel down on the kitchen counter beside her, primly bookmarking a page. “On one condition, Arthur.”

“What condition?”

“Take a shower afterwards, love. As much as your bare chest might be appealing to the people of Britain, I don’t think it could quite make up for the smell coming off of you at the moment.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think by this point I would be able to post on time. Unfortunately, I lost this chapter somehow through Word and couldn't salvage it, so I literally rewrote the whole thing from scratch.
> 
> Do you feel that? That feeling where we're climbing up a hill on a roller coaster? Don't think I forgot about that cliffhanger from a few chapters ago...
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated <3


	20. Bedmates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #CompetentArthurIsSexyArthur  
> Arthur is always competent -> Arthur is always sexy. Quod erat demonstrandum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank everyone for sticking with me until Chapter 20. Over 40 bookmarks and 240 kudos. I'm speechless.
> 
> For all of you Americans, have a safe and happy Independence Day tomorrow.
> 
> Happy Reading! <3

 

Arthur was tearing up.

It was inevitable, really.

An eye unused to the prolonged use of contacts always protests against them. But it was annoying nonetheless.

And it wasn’t the only thing bothering Arthur at the moment.

He felt ridiculous. Purposefully so, but still. _Honestly, the contacts are the best part of this ensemble_ , Arthur thought morosely.

His hair was still damp from his recent shower, contributing to the youthfulness of his appearance. _At least the stitches are out_ , Arthur thought. But he couldn’t seem to find anything good to reflect upon when it came to the rest of his appearance. He studied himself in the mirror in front of him, frowning at the state of his apparel.

No one could deny that the fit was tapered. _In a I-rebelled-against-my-parents-and-pursued-an-art-degree sort of way_ , Arthur mused. _Just wonderful._

Tight denim skinny jeans hugged the curves of Arthur’s legs, rolled at the cuff. He felt ridiculous wearing Eames’ knock-off brown oxfords. The short sleeve button up felt tight around his biceps, uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the cheap shirt was layered under thin suspenders, the same hue as his shoes.

“Where does Eames _get_ these things?” Arthur complained, as Iris helped him attach the end of a wayward strap. “They wouldn’t even fit him anyway!”

“Stop moving,” Iris ordered, fixing a crease in his shirt. “I took the stitches out of your back, love, but with my luck you’ll strain something whinging and we’ll be back to square one.”

Arthur was too preoccupied fidgeting with the contacts in his eyes to answer her. He rapidly blinked a few times to try to remedy the situation, but the green contacts seemingly floated farther out of position. He raised his hand to fix them, but was thwarted by the thick rims of fake glasses.

They had been Iris’ idea, to draw attention away from the still healing cuts on his face. Then, Iris had used some of her foundation to mask the discolorations, which Arthur reasoned was a necessary precaution, but hated with a passion. Unfortunately, it still wasn’t enough to hide the outlines of the wounds.

Arthur’s early morning transformation had been both tedious and demeaning, but he let Iris take the reins a bit. He was just glad she was so cooperative.

Yet, there was one thing they disagreed on, something Arthur was stalwart about remaining unchanged -

His hair.

Iris insisted Arthur had to do something different with it. “Love, you use so much gel I could spot you a continent away!”

“I’m sure we’ve changed enough,” Arthur said back to her, hopefully in a reasonable tone. “My hair can stay how it normally is.”

“You can’t tell me, Mr. Rational, that keeping your hair the same isn’t ‘a breach of protocol’?”

Unfortunately, Arthur had found out the hard way Iris was a very perceptive woman. She had watched from afar as he conducted his research for Eames, even picking up on a few of his favorite habits for herself. It was not helping Arthur’s case at the moment.

“There’s no protocol for meeting a - a co-worker while you’re wanted for murder!” Arthur sputtered, patting down the soft fluff of his hair miserably. “I don’t - I don’t need a haircut!”

And then Iris remained quiet throughout the rest of Arthur’s makeover. Suspiciously quiet. _That woman is too much like Eames_ , Arthur thought, as he went around the house arming himself with various weapons. He hid his Glock under a borrowed bomber jacket, along with his totem and the other equipment.

By the time Arthur came back upstairs to meet Iris, he was almost in a good mood. _Now, I just have to get the hair gel._ Arthur strode into the upstairs bathroom, his hand blithely reaching for the latch that would open the medicine cabinet. Smoothing back his unruly hair once more, Arthur’s eyes roamed the shelves, ready to land on the familiar label of Eames’ product.

They never found it. “Iris?” Arthur called, returning to Eames’ room. Iris sat on his maroon duvet, humming contentedly as she crocheted something blue.

“Yes, dear?” Iris looked up, all innocence and smiles with her white apron and pink reading glasses perched on her nose.

Arthur just looked at her a second, resignation washing over him. “I’m ready to leave now,” he said flatly, patting his untamed waves once more. _I feel like a schoolboy_ , Arthur thought sourly. _But I’m not going to pick a fight with Eames’ mother over a bottle of hair gel. Fuck._

“Chin up, love,” Iris said, seemingly oblivious to his predicament. “You look wonderful, if not out of character. But that’s exactly what we’re going for, isn’t it?” She stood up from the bed to clasp him in a light embrace, careful to avoid his newly bandaged back, free of stitches.

At the release of the hug, Arthur tried to make a vaguely optimistic face toward Iris. “Thanks, Iris,” Arthur managed, with sincerity.

Arthur looked towards the borrowed watch on his wrist, wishing once again he could just fly to his safehouse in Paris to retrieve his own possessions. _Soon_ , he told himself.

“Well, it looks like it’s about time to leave.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. He was never good at goodbyes.

Iris nodded, her pink reading glasses jiggling at their place around her neck. Her green and grey eyes stared at Arthur contemplatively. “Just promise me one thing, alright?”

Arthur shifted, uneasy with making a lasting promise. _I know all too well how that could end up_. “What is it, Iris?”

Iris held his eyes with her own, a firm pout appearing on her pink lips. Her hands took up a position at her stout hips, cocking them commandingly. _I can see how she would be a good nurse_ , Arthur thought. _She has the temperament for it - and the pushiness._

“Don’t be daft, Arthur,” Iris continued. “No matter how long you’re gone, love...  Stay safe.” She paused, her glasses reflecting the early morning light. “I wouldn’t want to have to stitch you up again. It’s a waste of my time and ability as a nurse - and Eames’ mother.”

Arthur nodded, but she went on. “And I’m sure Eames would be embarrassed to drag you back here again, injured. Lord knows that boy didn’t inherit much medical knowledge from his mum.”

Arthur tried to smile once more, and hoped his second attempt was better than the last. “I’ll do my best to stay out of trouble, Iris. Who else would look after your son?”

Iris’ lips quirked at his attempt at humor. “You better get off then,” she said, suddenly brisk. “Come on then, come on.” Iris bustled out of Eames’ room towards the downstairs. Arthur followed her to the door, her energy instilling a sense of urgency in the air.

And yet Arthur paused once he reached the door frame, his mostly healed palm faltering against the rough surface. He looked back into Eames’ room.

The poker chips on the side table gleamed in the bright sun, the strip of light illuminating the dark wood of the floor. Haphazardly balanced on the side of Eames’ dresser was the ‘ _Lucky_ ’ engraved dog collar Arthur had gifted the man so long ago. _Well, I guess not that long_ , Arthur thought. _It just feels that way._

Arthur’s feet felt heavy as he stopped at the entrance, unwilling to move from his spot. A sense of trepidation filled him as he stood, as though leaving would signal some irreversible transition from one flux of the future into the next.

 _Don’t be ridiculous_ , Arthur thought to himself, shaking his head. _You should be excited to get out. Granted, Eames is a pain, but it’s better than being cooped up in here, watching endless broadcasts about the ‘White Collar Killer’ on the TV._

Arthur forced himself to push off from the wall, his eyes tearing away from the tranquil silence of Eames’ bedroom. _It will all be over soon_ , he told himself. _Just keep going._

 

***

 

Arthur pulled up a few streets away from the pub where he was supposed to meet Eames. His head brushed the ceiling of the third car he had stolen in as many hours.

Arthur had spent all morning covering his tracks. He purposefully backtracked and strolled into random shops, switching his clothing and vehicles and even his mannerisms. Arthur was trying to confuse any tails, imaginary or not.

The automobile he was in now would be his final switch, a poor 1999 model that some trusting driver had left the keys in the sun visor for, easy pickings for Arthur’s needs. He didn’t even have to break into it, really. Just drive away.

Flexing his sweaty fingers in the cheap leather gloves he had lifted earlier, Arthur pulled the visor down, slipping the keys into their original position. He slid out out from the vehicle smoothly, keeping his head turned away from any pedestrians. Taking the suffocating gloves off his hands, Arthur pulled the brim of the nondescript hat lower over his eyes.

Dodging a pair of rather clueless teenagers, Arthur threw the stolen gloves into a bin, bumping into a man with a rather large bag. The man, stumbling, glared at him. Later, he would find a hat that he didn’t recognize as his own, safely tucked away into one of the bag’s pockets.

Still taking time to weave through other pedestrians in an intricate pattern, Arthur was disproportionately glad to finally arrive at the agreed meeting place.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile as he pushed inside the pub after glancing at the watch on his wrist. _Three plus hours of wasted time, and still ten minutes early._

The interior of the pub was smoky, even during mid-afternoon. Only a few patrons graced the rugged booths lining the depths of the establishment, a few valiantly flickering lamps the only illumination offered inside. The main bar looked well-used, cluttered and pockmarked, and the barkeep behind it appeared the same, her faded grey top looking particularly at home with her tired features.

The woman barely looked up as Arthur walked in, too busy fiddling with what Arthur supposed was a plugged tap.

Pausing at the threshold, Arthur stopped, indecisive. The movement wasn’t go unnoticed by the world-weary employee behind the counter, as preoccupied as she seemed. “Seat yourself, mate." It was a second before she spared a glance in Arthur’s direction.

She did a double-take at Arthur’s bourgeois disguise, her thin eyebrows lifting.

Arthur forced himself to act oblivious to the scrutiny, his movements a practiced gait as he made his way over to an empty booth. Slidding into the far corner, Arthur placed himself so his back was conveniently resting against the wall. His eyes caught with an older gentleman as he sat down, and Arthur nodded at the man in a hopefully casual way, his hair flopping about in a decidedly undignified manner.

Cracking his fingers under the table, Arthur stayed stubbornly uncoiled as he studied the inside of the pub, his eyes carefully profiling each of its occupants. _That one uses a cane, she needs reading glasses, he’s too far into his cups to walk straight…_ Arthur distracted himself by cataloging details as he waited, his hand itching to stray closer to his Glock.

Eventually, the barkeep vacated her spot from behind the counter. She trailed over to Arthur with obvious reluctance, her eyes lingering over his clothes in distaste. “I’ll have whatever dark lager you suggest.” Arthur spoke before the woman could open her mouth, twisting his vowels and consonants to mimic the clipped tones of an Eastern European.

“Alright.”

The woman left as soon as she had appeared.

A foamy glass was placed in front of Arthur moments later, the contents spilling slightly as she sloshed the glass down, beer running onto the unpolished tabletop. Arthur bit his tongue before he could ask about a coaster, his head inclining in a subtle nod towards the bartender in thanks.

Arthur sipped his drink, resisting the urge to make a face at the shoddy concoction. He allowed himself a glance towards the door once more. Arthur frowned at the closed door as he checked his pilfered watch, loose hair falling to rest on his forehead.

Pushing back the wayward locks in a dismissive gesture, Arthur stopped himself from thinking about the possibility of Eames’ getting into danger. _Or forgetting about our meeting. Or standing me up. Definitely not that._

 _This isn’t some moronic date_ , Arthur told himself. _Relax and play dumb. If anything, you can gauge the mood of London while you’re here._ Arthur’s attention swept over the bar’s occupants once more, his gaze halting at anything interesting.

There really wasn’t much to look at.

In one corner a soccer match played at a low volume, the players streaking across the bright pitch in blobs of yellow and red. Only one bar-goer watched the game, his mustache drooping lower and lower as the red team dominated the spectacle.

A woman stirred morosely at a sad-looking martini, her features fixed on the photograph of something clutched in her hand. Her long nails tapped against her drink inelegantly as she sat, pensive. Arthur watched her stiffen as she felt someone’s gaze, and he flicked his eyes away from her hastily.

The only place bereft of Arthur’s inspection was the last corner of the room. No one sat in that area, a messy arrangement of chairs stacked against the plain walls. Above them flickered a TV in which a news broadcast advertised headlines in quick succession. A blonde reporter was narrating with apparent vigor, her bracelets moving up and down at her every gesticulation.

Arthur watched the news ticker proclaim **‘Three More Bodies Identified By Experts From Past Explosion at CurrencyCorp’** when the door to the pub slowly opened, yanking his attention away from the headline.

Arthur felt something rise in his stomach. It rapidly fell at the appearance of a man at the threshold, his light hair and slight build hovering unimposingly over the entrance.

“Will it be the usual, John?” The bartender was already reaching out, her hands deft as she groped for a specific bottle.

“That’s fine, ta Joan.” Arthur noticed that as the man moved forward, the door behind him stayed ajar. More fingers appeared around the wood, tan and sure.

Arthur could barely remember to keep a straight face as Eames strode into the bar. He was as purposeful and casual as Arthur had ever seen him, a light grin taking shape on his face as he took in Arthur in the corner.

“You look a sight.” Eames slid into the seat across from Arthur, his voice smooth and seamless, his usual undertones of teasing able to be discerned.

“... Sasha.” Arthur said, his accent uncharacteristically deep and crisp. Eames smiled beatifically, a dimple forming on his right cheek. Arthur felt something rebel in his stomach as Eames leaned forward, centimeters away from touching Arthur’s face.

“A little exotic are we, darling?” Eames murmured, his left hand reaching out to snag a sip of Arthur’s drink. Arthur’s hand twitched in belated protest.

Seconds later, the barkeep materialized next to their spot, her eyes blinking toward Eames.

The man had composed himself into a business-like pose by the time he met her stare, the only evidence of his stolen sip a tiny droplet of liquid gleaming at the edge of his full lips.

“What would you like?” The woman seemed fractionally more forgiving as she took in Eames’ worn attire. Eames flashed her an alluring smirk, his teeth gleaming in the low light.

“I’d like a pint of the cheapest beer you got, love,” Eames countered, his arm spread out against the back of the booth’s cushions.

The woman wheeled away without another word, and Eames’ frowned, his hand reaching for another grab at Arthur’s half-empty glass. Arthur countered his movement without looking down, his eyes tracking the woman’s progress behind the bar. “I’m losing my touch,” Eames complained dramatically, his fingers rolling a poker chip in his palm.

“She’s gay,” Arthur replied absently, feeling the lump of his own totem in his pants. “What took you so long?”

Eames rolled his eyes, his hot hand trapping Arthur’s left wrist as it reappeared above the table. Instead of responding, he turned Arthur’s wrist gently around, inspecting the clasp of his borrowed watch. Continuing down the line of Arthur’s wrist, Eames lightly traced the slightly raised scar marring his palm. Arthur resisted a shiver at the action, the skin unusually hot and sensitive to the touch. Arthur enjoyed the feeling of Eames’ calloused fingers, the caress a drastic antithesis from the panicked scrambling of Eames’ weeks before.

And yet, wary of other bar goers and maybe a little distrustful of himself, Arthur tugged his hand back slowly, fist curling.

They stayed quiet even after Eames’ drink arrived, lost in their own thoughts.

“It was not a slow morning, _Sasha_ ,” Eames said finally, his face pinching in the way Arthur knew meant he was unhappy. “Our associate… ah, _Helga_ , has decided to leave us.”

“What?” Arthur hissed, dropping his forged accent in agitation. “Gone to where? By force?” Arthur’s mind was already racing ahead, to thoughts of Eddie and ways of kidnapping and discarded evidence. And then the ideas rapidly cut off, slammed shut at one thought - “Was there confirmation of… a struggle?”

Eames exhaled slowly at Arthur’s query, his fingers swirling patterns on the surface of Arthur’s drink. “No,” he said, sitting back into the booth. Eames threw a poker chip onto the table dismissively, and it spun in a stormy black circle.

Arthur’s experienced eye caught the way Eames’ shirt tugged slightly at the motion, indicative of his firearm being close at hand. _More trouble, then._

“She seems to have… left of her own volition,” Eames drawled finally, his offhand delivery belying the anger in his voice. His hand slapped the poker chip roughly to a stop, a vein in his hand pulsing at the movement.

Arthur traced the prominence of the blood vessel with his eyes, his point man instincts rising within him. “There’s much more developing here than we thought.”

“Yes,” Eames said softly, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he briefly closed his eyes. “And I have no fucking idea where it’s all leading to.”

“We need to…” Arthur trailed off, his dark gaze sweeping over the dingy pub once more. “ … find a better place to talk, pool information,” he finished lamely. Eames’ tawny green eyes studied Arthur a moment, lingering on the thick rims of the glasses shielding his face. Then, without preamble, Eames stood up from his seat, their drinks jostling a little at the errant vibrations.

“Let’s go then.”

Arthur barely remembered to throw down payment onto the table before he was swept up into Eames’ wake, out the door, and onto the London streets.

 

***

 

Arthur wasn’t quite sure how he found himself in front of a nondescript hotel an hour later, but there he was. The brick and mortar of the establishment rubbed against his healing back as he  leaned next to Eames, grudgingly pretending to bum a cigarette.

“I quit years ago,” Arthur reminded Eames, warding off the smoldering object.

“I don’t smoke either,” Eames said defensively, twirling the burning tobacco expertly within his fingertips. His features were a haze to Arthur behind the thin trail of serpentine smoke. “We just need a cover while we decide how to play this.” Eames trailed a hand through his gelled hair, smiling devilishly at an exiting guest. “Do you want to manipulate them to give us rooms next to each other?”

Arthur picked at the suspenders on his shoulders, his lips pursing. “ I can dodge the cameras easily, I’m familiar with the layout of this chain of hotels. But, the problem is…”

“The problem is…?” Eames prompted, rolling his head to loosen his neck muscles. His tan collar brushed against day-old stubble, highlighting the man’s beard. Arthur blinked away from the sight, wetting his lips.

“A lot of people are interested in me lately, Eames. It’s too risky. I shouldn’t have come to London. I shouldn’t have stayed - ”

“ - but you did,” Eames cut off severely, stopping the torrent of Arthur’s words. “So, darling, what’s the root of your rambling?” Eames sucked at the inside of his cheek, his foot balancing against the wall behind them. One of his arms crossed over his chest, perfectly innocent. But Arthur knew the position was a perfect one to reach for his Heckler & Koch, undoubtedly hidden on his left side. _A deceptively cautious man_ , Arthur thought. _So why is he pushing me to stay when he knows it’s not a smart idea?_

“I can’t use any identification,” Arthur said finally, readjusting his own jacket. The material suddenly felt thick, oppressive. The whole city did, really.

Eames seemed surprised at Arthur’s admission, dropping the smoldering cigarette to extinguish it under the heel of his shoe. Reaching down to flick the remains into a nearby trashcan, Eames turned closer to Arthur. “Easy,” he said. “I get a room, you follow.”

“And look like a cheap prostitute?” The words were out of Arthur’s mouth before he could regulate them, bringing a hot blush to suffuse his cheeks.

“No.” Eames smirked, his lips curving into a grin. He reached out to snap one of Arthur’s suspenders, eyes glittering. “A damn good one.”

 

***

 

Arthur evaded security easily as he slipped inside the building, his stride determined as he went to the receptionist’s desk. _Why couldn’t I just hack into the system?_

 _Because you know we don’t have that type of time or luxury, darling._ Eames’ voice slithered through Arthur’s consciousness, admonishing and amused. _Just talk to her. That’s something you do every day, isn’t it? Just talk, Arthur._

Arthur fixed his face into a caricature of a friendly smile as the receptionist looked up, her face coolly polite as she greeted him.

“I hope you can help me,” Arthur rushed out, exaggerating his American accent. “This - oh my - this is so embarrassing - ”

“What is it, sir?” The receptionist’s composure didn’t change in the slightest, her fingers still working over the keys even as she made eye contact.

“My boyfriend - ” Arthur gave an exaggerated laugh, his healing ribs protesting at the sudden flex of muscles. “Wow, my boyfriend is _soo_ ridiculous sometimes. I was supposed to book this special room and everything for our first trip to Britain, you know, London and all that, ‘Oh, God save the Queen’ and - ”

“Just let me know where you would like to stay and I’ll see if it’s available.”

“Well, I was talking with that, that, uh, you guys say ‘ _bloke_ ’ right, ha, you know, the one that just walked in, and he literally told me the exact room my boyfriend said he wanted. Oh my gosh, so awkward.” Arthur was glad to pause and take a breath, internally rolling his eyes. “Anyways, I was wondering, Miss - ”

“ - if I could find a room near there.” The receptionist finished his long-winded tale with a few clicks of her fingers, the keys loud in the empty lobby. Arthur supposed at this time everyone was out enjoying dinner, not lying to hotel employees. “Well, Room 491 _is_ booked. I can see why your boyfriend wanted it, that’s one of the cosier accommodations, farther away from the noise of the elevator… however, hmm, would you mind descending down a floor, to the third level?”

“No, that’s swell!” Arthur flashed a cheery grin, cocking his thumb behind him. “But I really need to use, ah, ‘the loo’ as you Britain people say!” Arthur jerked his head to the side. “I’m gonna go and use the side door to talk to my boyfriend after. He’ll be tickled to know we can get the same price, although I think I’ll be in the doghouse for not reserving a spot in the first place!” Arthur’s face hurt from smiling so much. He bounced away from the desk, intentionally tripping over a bit of rug so his features were shielded from a camera.

Arthur only allowed himself to relax until after he was well past the receptionist's point of view. Shutting the door to the stairs behind him gingerly, Arthur massaged his jaw, rushing up to the fourth floor.

“Room service." Arthur's voice reverberated in a deadpan through Room 491’s door. He kept a hand close to his Glock.

The door opened slowly, tendrils of steam wafting out like grabbing hands. Arthur frowned as the warm air hit his face. Eames appearing in the opening, his hair damp. Arthur looked down, and realized the man was clad in only a hotel robe.

“Glad you’re here. I’m ready for a treat.” Eames winked exaggeratedly, blocking Arthur’s path.

“Shut up, Eames.” Arthur pushed the man aside and walked into the room, his jacket suddenly too warm. Arthur shrugged off the article of clothing, throwing the heavy material onto the bed. He turned back to Eames. “Why did you take a shower?”

Eames stood by the closed door, his hands in the shallow pockets of the cheap white robe. His skin looked unusually tan in contrast to the fabric, tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves. Eames swallowed under Arthur’s scrutiny, beads of water dripping off from his hair to pool on his shoulders. Arthur watched Eames lift a hand as though to pat his damp hair, but then, slowly pull it down again to rest at his side. Arthur observed the fidgeting with a slight frown on his face. Eames the forger never made extraneous movements, especially ones that could be classified as ‘twitchy’.

Eames saw Arthur staring and immediately adopted his usual swagger once more. “Sorry, Arthur, does it make you uncomfortable?” Eames smiled in that irritatingly appealing way of his, stalking closer to Arthur in the tight confines of the room. “Unlike some of us, I haven’t had the convenience of home amenities, lately. I was going to bloody murder one of those bobbies soon if I didn’t get a proper shower.”

Arthur thought about retorting that today had been the first time he’d taken a real shower in ages, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was no use trading words with Eames. Arthur knew from experience the forger would just thrive on the attention, propagate it.

Arthur folded himself into the lone chair in the corner, drumming his fingers onto the plush armrest. “Yes, well, those of us in the outskirts of London actually acquired some information, believe it or not.”

“I’m all ears, Arthur.” Eames fell onto the sole bed in a rush, his robe gaping out onto the crisp white duvet. Arthur pointedly averted his eyes to stare at some abstract painting on the wall. He reached up, easing off one of his thin suspenders. Eames followed the motion, adjusting the terrycloth of his garment.

Arthur reached up to adjust his tie, but his hand fell flat as it ghosted on air. He stretched his palms on the seat below him, wrists popping.

Arthur was not often alone with Eames, and there was a reason for that. They were opposites, antipodes, contradicting converses of each other. Everyone in the business knew this. When there was no need for them to mingle, naturally they did not. Oil on water. Or propellent on fire. Take your pick. Nothing good came from their meetings. Or at least, that’s what Arthur always told himself.

And now, there was that feeling clouding the room again, making them both on edge. Spasmodic. Prone to bad ideas.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Did you know our friend Colin Jansen enlisted in the service?”

Eames made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, running his fingers over the expanse of sheets in front of him. He was propped up on his side, facing Arthur. Arthur hoped the robe was covering everything it needed to, but by the few subtle glances Arthur allowed himself, Arthur knew it was not.

“Really, Arthur?” Eames played with a loose strand in the bedspread, his fingers twirling. “Is that how he evaded you? With refined British tactics and learned American persistence?” Arthur smiled involuntarily at the sarcasm in Eames’ voice, stretching so his shirt was not quite so tightly tucked into his skinny jeans.

“Barely made it through boot camp,” Arthur said, his forearms resting on his knees. “Was dishonorably discharged due to sexual assault and espionage.”

“Sounds like an upstanding bloke,” Eames said, nodding in mock agreement. “Find anything else?”

“Oh, you mean besides the fact that Eva Jansen’s miracle stock is a sleep aid?”

“No - you’re taking the piss.” Arthur granted himself a hint of self-praise at Eames’ incredulous expression. He launched into an explanation of his findings on both the Jansens and the Pergamonium.

Even with the curtains closed, Arthur could feel the night growing older. As Arthur fielded off Eames’ teasing and answered his sparse questions, he let his mind wander to the fact that he wasn’t making it out of London tonight. _Where will I go?_

“ - and of course, now that our lovely friend Andrea has taken her leave, we know Jansen had an in the whole time David and I were working alongside her. I can’t believe I didn’t see through her. I should’ve worked faster to vet them both. Shite!” Eames hit the mattress with his fist in a muted thump, the top of his robe sliding open even wider. Arthur look at Eames’ bared chest, the dark hairs peppering his breastbone.

“You’re correct.” Arthur said distractedly.

“Yes, I know darling, I’m - wait.” Eames shifted up into a sitting position, the sides of his clothing gaping even further. “Did _Arthur_ \- point man extraordinaire and ‘a little more specificity, Eames’ just tell me I’m bloody well correct?”

“We need to put the pieces together, make a plan,” Arthur got up from the chair, back cracking, feet pacing. He paused in front of the TV by the foot of the bed, a thought hitting him. “It needs to be soon, the hit on them. This news, the media, it’s not going to blow over, Eames. The search for me, or someone like me, is just building and building and the public is just going to be in a frenzy, hell - ”

Arthur’s mind flashed to earlier, where he had been walking the streets, covering his tracks. _“I’m just so worried about what I’ll do after the upcoming holiday, Grace. I’m telling you, Gary and I had a row last night about sending the children back to school - I can’t stand the idea of them traveling so far, alone, with this maniac on the loose. No one knows his motivations yet, what if he’s some sort of kidnapper?” Arthur’s feet slowed as he trailed behind the two woman in matching peacoats, a bag from the local florist swinging between them. The taller of the two had a loud, piercing voice, and her worries carried far beyond Arthur’s range of hearing. “Don’t worry about that,” a nearby vendor called, his hand already outstretched with the current newspaper. “You should care about your husband. This guy seems to have it in for the office-type folk. Just look how he killed these three at CurrencyCorp!” Arthur glanced at the paper as he went by, the insides of an exploded corridor flooding his view. The picture was in full color, detailing just how the three ‘employees’ were blown up. “The price has dropped!” The shopkeeper called towards Arthur, his sweat-stained shirt overshadowed by a leather cap._

Arthur had been shaken at the news. It was a grim revelation. Somehow Jansen had successfully made it appear as though the men killed had been regular CurrencyCorp workers, not trained mercenaries. It was only a matter of time before the possibility of a lone wolf terrorist echoed throughout the news outlets, bouncing overseas. Arthur wouldn’t just have a problem dodging the law in the U.K. He would have to worry about the entire world.

“Arthur? Arthur, are you alright?” Eames had materialized in front of the TV next to Arthur, his eyes worriedly scanning Arthur’s face. There was a pressure on Arthur’s wrist, and he realized belatedly that it was Eames’ grip, just above where Arthur’s burn was wrapped. Arthur gaped at the gesture, his mind a jumble.

Stiffly, Arthur looked up to meet Eames’ stare. Eames’ posture relaxed a little at the eye contact. He took on a more laid back stance, his hand releasing Arthur without another word. “Has my mum been leeching brain cells from you with her daily telly programs?”

Arthur let out an aborted laugh. It choked on its way out of his throat, clenched and painful. “No. I’ve been… I’ve had some vivid dreams lately. I was remembering one of them,” Arthur lied, aware of the stress Eames was already under by trying to manage the London situation. It would do no good to vocalize the threat of international attention.

“Dreams?” Eames’ hand thrust out again as though to clasp Arthur’s arm, but he stopped himself, drawing the limb back. “I thought you had learned from Cobb’s mistakes,” Eames said rather coldly, folding his arms. “It does no good to fuck with that PASIV regularly, outside of work. You know the consequences just as well as I do, Arthur.”

It had been a while since Arthur had seen Eames look this stern. “No,” Arthur said hastily, unceremoniously plopping himself down onto the foot of the bed. His thoughts flashed back to days ago, to his rather vivid memory of their introduction. “I meant naturally.” Arthur ran a hand through his ungelled hair. “I just fall asleep, and… I dream.”

“But Arthur,” Eames sat down softly next to Arthur, as though not to startle the point man. “You know after the military’s projects… that just doesn’t happen to us any more. You can’t dream like anyone else. _We_ can’t.”

“But I am.” Arthur turned towards Eames, his brown eyes searching into Eames’ viridescent ones. “I’ve researched chemical formulas and manipulations, Mr. Eames. I looked into Somnacin and side effects of chemist’s concoctions, hell, I even thought about calling Yusuf. I think the inception changed me, Eames, and not for the better.”

The fan whirred above the two men as they sat on the edge of the hotel room bed. The last of the natural light had disappeared off the horizon, making way for the illumination of the city’s own luminescence through the thin curtains. Arthur’s body felt hot in his tight clothing, compressed. He hadn’t felt this jittery since his last deployment.

Eames was the first to move, leaving his position next to Arthur to go into the bathroom.

He came out a few minutes later; sans robe, but plus boxer briefs. His chest was still tantalizingly bare, save for tattoos and various silvery-white scars.

The sight of him snapped Arthur right out of his fugue. He moved off the bed, towards his own abandoned clothing. Arthur reached out towards his jacket, but was stopped as Eames snatched the fabric away, throwing it into a different corner.  “What are you doing, Eames?” Arthur was not amused.

“I’m - ” Here the man paused, throwing back the top of the bed’s covers. “ - going to get some actual shut eye. And I suggest you get some too, Arthur, dreams or no soddin’ dreams. There’s nothing like a possible murder conviction in my future to persuade me to get a good night’s rest, darling.”

Arthur just peered at Eames for a moment. The man was serious, slipping under the right side of the bed’s covers without hesitation.

Arthur looked towards the door, and then to his jacket - to his Glock, his other weapons, his totem - right under Eames’ dangling hand.

“Don’t even think about it, Arthur.” Eames mumbled up from the hotel’s feather pillows, his voice muffled as he rolled onto his stomach. “I’vf had enufh chasin’ afteruh peopuhl to lasht me uh lifshtime.”

Arthur looked around once more, his gaze straying to Eames’ bare back. The man’s muscles were relaxed, melting into the mattress underneath him, but Arthur wasn’t fooled. If he went for that bomber jacket, he would be in for a scuffle.

Eames suddenly jerked his chin up from the pillows, rolling to fix Arthur with a sleepy-eyed glare. “Just take off your damn trousers and get into bed, Arthur. If I have to leave this spot to persuade your chivalrous arse to join me, I am not going to be a hospitable bedmate.”

Arthur took in Eames a moment longer, assessing the probability of his claim. Shrugging, he unbuttoned his pants, beginning with the fastenings of the collar at his neck. “I hog the blankets,” Arthur told Eames. “I get cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, shoutout to domlerrys for the summary (and many other things). :D  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	21. Ghosts That We Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur digs up some ghosts. Eames searches for some hope in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading! <3

As a child, Arthur had an asthma attack once. He can remember it vividly.

He felt weak and sweaty, his hands curled in helpless fists at his sides. His neck felt strained, taut, like someone was pulling at the skin with an iron grip. His chest was constricted as well, as though someone was closing an invisible band tighter and tighter around his ribs.

But Arthur wasn’t a young child. He wasn’t at home.

A typical scene was playing out in front of him. Standard military issue racks, men’s gear thrown haphazardly over them after a long patrol. Rhodes and Eckhaus were fighting over the last Nintendo controller again, their voices lost behind Arthur’s shallow breathing.

He stood there, trying to act as though nothing was wrong, as though he wasn’t being squeezed from the inside out. His vision blurred in front of him.

Gunfire.

It came in deafening blasts, in spots of black and red.

His men were yelling, hazy figures scrambling at the corners of his vision. Arthur couldn’t seem to get a grasp on it all, couldn’t seem to bring the scene into focus. His legs wouldn’t move.

He was suffocating.

Arthur couldn’t summon the will to move, but he could still hear. He could hear everything. Namely, the unmistakable sound of people screaming.

A burst of adrenalin shot through him, jarring and bright. He tried to swallow, to do _something_ , but coughed instead, phlegm splattering the ground in front of him. He couldn’t get enough air.

But he could still hear.

Arthur could hear the _whap-whap-whap_ of a Chinook’s rotors roaring over him, ruffling the back of his collar. Smoke followed, obscuring his already clouded vision. Arthur coughed again, struck by wracking convulsions that forced him to double over, streaking pain shooting out from his stomach. He swore he could hear a rib crack. _I need to get out of here._

He tried to latch onto to the wailing once more, tried to distinguish voices. But his sight was nebulous, his stomach in knots, his knees couldn’t support him -

He was burning up, he was so hot sweat stuck in clumps to the hairs on his chest, every inhale burning his throat like vodka on the rocks -

He was being strangled, _smothered_ -

Arthur shot up with a gasp. The pressure was still there, a vice around his midsection. He flailed, rolling forward, free but tangled, his back slamming against something, hands scrambling, desperate -

He had his Glock off the table before his mind caught up, one foot braced slightly behind the other, knees bent -

His heart was racing way too fast, the staccato thumps deafening in his ears. A vein jumped at his throat. There were still spots in his vision - black spots - _why couldn’t he focus - where was he -_

_I can’t breathe._

Arthur’s finger twitched, a tiny tremor, an erosion of control.

“Arthur, it’s not real. It’s not, darling.” The voice next to him was heartbreakingly raw. But the sound didn’t register with Arthur. He felt tight, _trapped_ -

 _Rapid machine gun fire roared next to him, static bursts of light and explosions._ A sense of hopelessness hit Arthur like a blow to the stomach -

_“We’re gonna die here.”_

“No, no, Arthur, we’re in a hotel room, yeah? Can you describe to me where we are? Put the gun down. Please, Arthur.” Sounds filtered into Arthur’s brain unwillingly, spotty reception through a terrible storm. Almost outside of his control, Arthur could feel himself mechanically releasing the magazine of his Glock. There was a dull thud as the clip hit the floor in front of him. The sound wasn’t reassuring. Arthur was sweating, beads of perspiration winding their way down his chest - his bare chest - _Where is my uniform?_

Arthur’s breathing began to pick up and he glanced at his Glock, the sight of the absent magazine enough to tip him closer to the edge once more. “Arthur, we’re in a hotel room. We’re secure. Put. The gun. Down.” An authoritative voice pierced through the film that clung to Arthur’s mind, his consciousness.

Everything stopped.

He twisted the pistol, sliding back the catch robotically, releasing the last round to the floor.

He still couldn’t breathe.

Distantly, he thought he could recognize someone talking to him, strangely encouraging. _Eames?_ “That’s brilliant Arthur, yeah, now just - ”

Arthur slid to the floor, legs useless. His head was spinning, vision blurring. _Hot skin dark sweat too little bullets useless gun NO -_ Arthur clasped his head in his hands, gun forgotten. The weight of it was taken away from where it landed on his foot. Arthur realized that the absence of his firearm should worry him - but he couldn’t summon up the appropriate emotion. He was numb.

Hands empty, Arthur could concentrate only on the mess that was his hair where his fingers tangled. His back felt cool against the wall, a wall that felt too solid, too smooth - _I can’t breathe_ -

A pressure became evident at the back of Arthur’s neck, warm and insistent. It guided Arthur’s head between his legs. Arthur complied to the mysterious influence, closing his eyes.

With his head stuck between his knees, Arthur’s breath hitched arrhythmically.

Gradually, he remembered how to operate his lungs.

It took a lifetime and a millisecond for Arthur to gain a grasp on the current situation. Head still between his legs, Arthur felt the last dregs of his dignity wash out from under him. _First a bullet wound, and now this._

“Shit,” Arthur muttered. Ashamed, he cautiously pulled his head out from between his legs.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

The hotel room was in complete disarray. White sheets twisted across the carpet, the duvet somehow flung overtop of the hotel’s television. A lamp had been knocked off the bedside table - presumably by himself, Arthur realized - and lay on the floor, the lampshade dented by some unknown struggle. Although the clock on the dresser flashed 2:58am, the fallen lamp was on, casting an irregular amber glow that shone faintly onto the tips of Arthur’s bare feet.

Belatedly, Arthur noticed that the reassuring presence had never vanished from the back of his neck. It was the only part of him that felt warm at the moment.

Arthur shifted, blinking as he turned toward the source of the pressure.

It took him a second to adjust, and another few to realize who he was seeing.

Eames was beside him, his emerald eyes wary and soft under the low light. He was crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet. Arthur’s eyes trailed up the expanse of Eames’ outstretched arm; the arm whose palm was currently cupping the back of Arthur’s clammy neck. _That’s the pressure._ Owlishly, Arthur blinked once more. He moved his head forward to dislodge the hold, but Eames’ grip stayed resolutely firm. Arthur didn’t try to fight it. He was too distracted. Distracted by the angry scarlet marks that tore bloody furrows in the flesh of Eames’ forearm.

Arthur traced the outline of the injury trepidatiously, his heart creeping further into his throat. _Those are scratch marks. My scratch marks._

Guilt hit Arthur like a smack.

_You’re such a fucking idiot, Arthur. A disgrace._

“Eames…” Arthur began, and trailed off, not quite sure where he was going to begin with.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looked up.

Eames was staring at him, an unidentifiable emotion lining the planes of his face. But Arthur could read the man’s body language loud and clear. And it was saying, _don’t you dare fucking apologize._

Arthur looked away on instinct.

“Arthur.” Eames said his name once more, his feet whisper-soft against the fabric of the carpet. “Back again, darling?”

“Yeah,” Arthur said quietly, patting the space next to him. “Sit. You’ll hurt your back, crouching like that.” Eames huffed, sliding next to Arthur in a heap. Eames’ hand slid easily from Arthur’s neck to rest at his shoulder.

Eames was giving him a choice - if Arthur moved out from from beneath Eames’ hold, Eames would let him move.

But Arthur, although unwilling to admit it, felt barely grounded, electrified, one loud noise away from systematically clearing every room and killing every threat within a kilometer radius.

To add to his list of problems, it didn’t help that the entire country was currently staging a nationwide manhunt for him.

Eames’ arm could stay. But they needed to talk. And Arthur was no stranger to how uncomfortably accurate Eames could be at reading body language. _Too accurate._

So Arthur reached out, righting the mangled lamp in front of them. It cast an odd shape across the floor, rays of light straining to penetrate the shadows. Arthur felt for the switch, clicking it decisively.

They were swathed in darkness.

“If you wanted to make out like teenagers, Arthur, you should’ve let me know. I would’ve brought my tracksuit, and stole some of my parent’s whiskey for the ambiance.” Unconsciously, Arthur felt a smile forming on his lips.

“I just want to talk,” Arthur said. “I’ve had enough judgement for one night.”

“I’m not judging you, Arthur,” Eames said. A muscle in his back cracked as he reached for something. “Although this wouldn’t have been my first choice for you.” Arthur felt something hit his stomach. He touched the strip, feeling the rough fabric bend in his fist. His lip twitched once more. “Really, braces? If you didn’t want to feel like a prostitute, love, you shouldn’t have gone with the corresponding attire.”

“Suspenders wouldn’t be high up on the list of disguises for me either,” Arthur said. “It wasn’t a good plan. I was improvising.”

“That’s the best kind of plan, darling. But I know how you love your specificity.”

“I do,” Arthur acknowledged, flexing his fingers. “I don’t like uncertainty.” And then, before he could lose his nerve - “And that’s what all of it is, Eames. Uncertainty. These dreams, it’s like - ”  

“ - it doesn’t make any sense?” Arthur could feel Eames’ stare through the darkness. Eames was silent a moment. “Do you remember when we finally met up? On that joint mission?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied cautiously. He didn’t understand Eames’ circular reasoning - bringing back their conversation to the exact thing he was having nightmares about. Combat.

“And they made us go on those ‘battalion runs’.” Arthur could feel Eames’ arm shake as the man vibrated with silent laughter. “For ‘team spirit’. God, Arthur, I felt like I’d signed up for the bloody secondary school rugby team again.”

“With more explosives. And less showering.”

“You showered in secondary school?”

“Yes, Eames,” Arthur huffed, pushing against Eames’ bicep in the dark. “I _showered_ in high school. I value a semblance of cleanliness.”

“Why’d you join the military, then, darling?” Eames leaned close, his lips tickling a wayward strand of Arthur’s hair. “For the view?” Arthur scowled at Eames’ meaning.

“Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, Eames. Not to mention - ” Arthur shook his head in annoyance. Eames had completely succeeded in derailing his train of thought. _Absolutely his goal. Well, I’m not that dumb._ “What’s your point, Mr. Eames? Do you even have one?”

A metallic click sounded to Arthur’s left. Even though the dark was complete, he’d recognize the sound anywhere. “Give me the Glock back, Mr. Eames. Now.” No one messed with Arthur’s gun.

Eames relinquished the empty firearm without a struggle, dropping it into Arthur’s waiting hand. Arthur checked the empty chamber compulsively. Distracted, it took him a second to realize he had forgotten about his own question. “Eames!”

The forger stayed relaxed next to Arthur, arms draped casually even at the irate hiss. “What, darling?”

“You’re not answering my question.” Arthur turned towards Eames. He reached out, meaning to poke Eames’ arm. He missed, his palm hitting another part of the man’s flesh.

His hand stayed pressed against Eames’ breastbone. Heat radiated off the skin steadily. Arthur traced his hand down the skin and could feel Eames’ heartbeat, a percussion of fast thumps.

“Well, I was going to remind you of my fantastic abs, but then I remembered they’re still here, Arthur. You don’t need a reminder.” The excuse rolled uncharacteristically flat off of Eames’ lips.

Arthur waited, hand falling to rest on Eames’ thigh.

Eames fidgeted, his muscles moving under Arthur’s hand. Arthur could hear a whisper of breath escape from Eames’ lips, a promise of a secret yet to unravel.

“I was ranked higher than you,” Eames said, and for once, Arthur refrained from reminding him of the ‘minor technicality’. Something in Eames’ voice stopped him.

“It didn’t matter much. But a lieutenant is different from a captain, like it or not. Controlling eighty men is different from twenty. Especially when they hate you.”

“No one hated you, Eames. The men adored you. You brought in the alcohol, the cigarettes, the porn magazines… But you still managed to keep them in line.”

Arthur could feel Eames’ thigh muscle tense under his palm. “It didn’t - it wasn’t always like that.” Eames shifted restlessly. “You saw the highlight reel, the top team. Before we met, I had men committing suicide left and right, threatening to garrot me with my bloody dental floss, going fucking mental in the middle of the night after waking up from the - ” Eames cut off. Arthur’s hand tightened a fraction on Eames’ bare thigh, but he refused to be put off.

“Yeah?” Arthur challenged, swallowing. “We weren’t exactly Boy Scouts either, Eames.”

“I just - fuck, darling - ” Arthur’s hand was dislodged from its position on Eames’ leg, and suddenly the lamp was back on, its bright light a stark difference from the total darkness of a moment ago -

Eames sat facing Arthur, his eyes containing just as much unrest as Arthur supposed his had minutes ago, a man ready to snap -

Eames left out a deep breath, his lungs swelling under the dark ink of his tattoos. His eyes settled into their normal enigma, a pool of contradictions. “We were on that run, and you were wearing that fucking belt, the one with the bloody _reflective_ tape, in the middle of a desert - ” Eames reached out and grasped Arthur’s wrist gently, as though he were a lifeline, as though they were a balancing act, ready to topple -

“All I could look at was you. I barely knew you. None of the Americans were people to me, yet. I thought about it, while you were joking with that other bloke - ”

“Bradley.” Arthur cut in quietly, a pang of distress racing through him.

“Bradley. I knew both of us, my men and yours, had no idea what we were getting into. No path, no ‘plan’, no higher purpose. Arthur, I had more than eighty men relying on me for direction, and I had no idea why I had been recruited for the program. I asked myself the same thing the unlucky bastards who lose both legs to an IED ask themselves, the blokes who do everything right and still get nothing in return - ”

“Why me?”

Eames was facing Arthur, his face all sharp angles and dark shadows. His expression was hard, but his eyes were crystalline, piercing, and Arthur knew he had to still be hallucinating, because Eames the forger never looked as though he was about to cry.

“There’s no plan,” Eames said softly, his hands running over Arthur’s forearms, over his pink, burned skin. Arthur felt more exposed than if he was naked, than if Eames had just announced they were about to have sex. His line of vision felt unobstructed, raw, like an open nerve.

“There’s always a plan,” Arthur protested. “We always figure something out.” His empty Glock felt hot in his hand, predatory. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to reassure. “We’ll figure it out.”

Eames’ breath ghosted hot as he leaned closer, intimate. “Everyone has demons in their closet, Arthur. We’ll understand the reason yours surfaced, later. But now - ” Eames was practically chest-to-chest with Arthur, his blistering presence banishing any other thought - “Now we find Jansen’s demons, we find his secrets. We damn the bloody plan. And we rip him to pieces.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks and shout-out to Domlerrys, who is now my life coach, cheerleader, and steadfast friend. She also dreamed up (ha) the title, which is the same name as a wonderful [song](https://youtu.be/IUVCISbpHuE) by Mumford & Sons. Feel free to check it out, and maybe gaze at the [lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mumfordsons/ghoststhatweknew.html) too ;)
> 
> And a new thank you to Queen Thayet, who was my Beta for this round. She's wonderful, and I appreciate her coping with my bad schedule and writing etiquette. 
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](https://randombitsofstars.tumblr.com/) if you want to chat or talk about the unsinkable ship that is A/E.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos! I'd love to hear what you thought. <3


	22. Permutation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has a revelation, and Eames is [professionally] jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading! <3

Eames’ voice reverberated late into the morning, a soothing, steady bass that calmed Arthur’s thoughts, smoothed edges of his agitation, and suppressed the eddies of his rampant brooding.

It was quiet in the pool of Arthur’s unconsciousness.

He floated in the eye of the storm.

Arthur awoke slowly, his head pillowed in Eames’ lap. The forger’s hand softly traced patterns in the thick of Arthur’s dark hair, his palm brushing across Arthur’s forehead.

And Eames’ fingers, fingers that Arthur had witnessed strangle and clench and shove and hurt - they trailed a light pressure against Arthur’s scalp, urging him gently out of unconsciousness.

It was surreal.

Arthur was encapsulated in the hypnotic stasis, swathed in the lull in time. His reluctance to move became less of a desire to ruin the moment than to ruin his life - he couldn’t remember such a feeling of complete peace. _This is right_ , Arthur’s brain cried out. His limbs, in a satisfied paralysis, seemed to concur. They were warm in the cradle of Eames’ body, in the center of his encompassing essence.

It was an epiphany.

It was respite, one that Arthur had only just discovered.

One that, of course, soon came to an end.

 

****

 

“Bloody hell!” Eames slammed through yet another pothole, one that jolted Arthur’s head squarely into the sloping roof above them. A torrent of water sprayed up from the rain-soaked road, a wave of blindingly-dark sludge cresting over their beleaguered windshield.

Arthur’s grip tightened on the Glock in his lap.

“Haven’t you learned that part of losing a tail is staying inconspicuous?” Arthur glared at the forger beside him. “Why the fuck did I let you drive?”

The raised, irritated skin on Eames’ arm caught the light as he jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding a collision with the car in front of them. Laughing as he blew through yet another red light, Eames’ teeth glinted white as he skid into an alley, his smile illuminated against the dark of the sky. “This is my city, darling. Of course I drove.” Eames threw the car into reverse, one hand skimming the edge of Arthur’s seat for stability. “Although I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting a pursuit quite this early.”

Arthur’s scathing response was swallowed by the impact of his body against the seat as Eames slammed on the gas. Huffing, Arthur peeled himself off the leather just in time for Eames to whip into an impromptu U-turn, their hatchback’s small tires spinning on the slick road. Eames wedged their vehicle back into traffic, sparks flying in Arthur’s rearview mirror as their bumper glanced off the curb.

“That was unnecessarily illegal, even for you.” Arthur adjusted in his seat to gain a better view of the cars behind them, squinting as droplets of rain coated his side mirror.

Eames glanced over, tracking Arthur’s preoccupation. “Well?” Eames asked, haphazardly drifting around a corner.

“No sign of the black Audi, but the rain is making things difficult.”

Hydroplaning, Eames flew down yet another street, scraping the side of a parked tour bus. “And what about the van?” Eames asked calmly, narrowly missing a fist-waving pedestrian. He stomped on the brakes as they hit a wall of traffic. “Fuck.”

Their car was deadlocked against the swell of traffic.

Eames stared angrily.

“There.” Suddenly, Arthur leaned forward, his seatbelt protesting as he pointed out a gap in the mass of vehicles.

“You’ve always had a penchant for tight squeezes, darling.” Eames forcefully wedged their car in, ignoring the blaring of horns behind them.

“All clear,” Arthur said, ignoring the noises of protest. “It seems, this time, your ridiculous driving tactics paid off.”

“Brilliant.”

“Maybe you should - ” Eames swerved the car across two lanes of traffic, fishtailing into a bustling alley. Arthur’s shoulder rammed into the car frame, his hand losing its grip on the handle. The car careened to an abrupt stop, tires scraping against the curb. “ - park,” Arthur finished, rubbing at his aching neck.

“I think we lost our tail,” Eames said, patting Arthur’s knee consoling. Arthur shot Eames a dirty look, throwing open his door. Shaking his head at the crunch of mangled fiberglass, Arthur stepped outside into the rain.

“There’s an abandoned warehouse up the street,” Eames said to Arthur, materializing beside him in a rush of rain-soaked clothing. “We can meet there - but I need to check on something first.” Eames looked over at Arthur hesitantly, raindrops stealing bits of space from between their mingling breath. Water speckled Arthur’s cheeks as he stared back. _When did this… turn into this?_ Arthur thought. _Why am I so… Wait -_

“Why?” Arthur asked, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “Why would you want to separate, now that we know Jansen’s men assumedly have both of our descriptions?”

“I - ” Eames broke off as they walked, his hand running over his forehead. “Just…” Eames reached out, and Arthur recoiled. At the sight of paper jutting out from Eames’ hand, Arthur brushed forward once more, taking the note from the forger’s grip.

“There’s the address, love. See you in thirty.” Before Arthur could even process what had transpired, Eames was gone.

Arthur stood at the edge of the crossing a moment, nonplussed at Eames’ actions. Slowly, surreptitiously glancing both ways, Arthur moved, unfolding the paper in his hand. _What was that?_ Arthur quickly memorized the address on the note in front of him. Soon, the light dappling of rain completely consumed Eames’ hastily penned script.

Shaking his head, Arthur tried to shove Eames’ erratic behavior to the back of his mind. For a moment, Arthur contemplated the idea of Eames working for Colin Jansen - _but no. There have been no other signs, no reason for Eames to get embroiled in that mess. I was the one who sought him out…_

_I think._

 

***

 

Arthur blended into the morning rush seamlessly.

He gave Eames time to do whatever the man had vanished to do by taking a newspaper from a nearby store, and let his thoughts rewind to the early morning, when they had first noticed the presence of Jansen’s men. _How were we followed?_ Arthur thought, swiping an elderly man’s phone off a nearby restaurant table. _Was it Andrea?_ Arthur let his mind turn over the multiple possibilities, his feet on autopilot. _Andrea’s disappearance means she could have been feeding information to Colin about David, Eames, and me the whole time. Andrea was an outsider from the moment she barged into Eddie’s cafe._ Arthur mulled over how the woman slowly gained his attention. First with the bottle, then with the dramatic entrance. _And then we had that odd conversation while we were making the bed..._ _Eames was right, the bastard. I shouldn’t have been so quick to trust her. Even if she was Hans’ wife._

Arthur headed down another street, wondering if Eames had finished his activity yet. _He’s had quite enough time,_  Arthur thought. _If I were in any other situation, I would have deduced what the man was up to by now._

Arthur stopped a moment, digging out his recently acquired newspaper from the confines of his jacket. He skimmed the titles for a moment, posture relaxed - but then he felt his shoulders tense, just slightly, a crease in his composure - and Arthur snapped the pages shut, spurred back into motion. He walked fast, covering ground in efficient, cutting strides. Arthur tread up to a nondescript door confidently, knocking on its plain surface with the side of his fist. He leaned against the dark railing, his fingers inching toward his Glock.

The door opened with little resistance, swinging inward. The room seemed empty, dimly lit, and Arthur felt a phantom pain radiate from his nose. For a second, Arthur was transported to his introduction into Project Somnacin.

But then Eames appeared.

He sported wet, disheveled hair and a damp shirt, all the way unbuttoned. He cheeks were red, infused with color, as though he had rushed from wherever he had come from.

Arthur exhaled quickly, moving inside before he could analyze the forger any more. Once inside, the building’s industrial lighting hit him full force. _This place is much larger than it looks._ Arthur turned back around, his nose wrinkling as he came face-to-face with Eames and his attire. “I think your shirt looks even worse when wet. I wasn’t aware that was possible, Mr. Eames.”

“Ta, Arthur,” Eames shot back, closing the door tightly. He slid the bolt into place, his body turned halfway towards Arthur’s discomfited one. “And those trousers look even more uncomfortable than they did yesterday.” Arthur frowned, following Eames as they walked over to the only furniture in the room, an empty desk and a sad-looking chair. They crowded around them, water dripping from their clothes onto the concrete floor in rhythmic splashes.

“Alright,” Eames said, breaking the hush. He fell back into the sole chair with a sigh, the springs creaking in protest under him. “What do we know about your lovely team?”

“We’ve gone over this, Eames.” Arthur leaned against the bare wall, crossing his arms. The cold seeped through his borrowed jacket, _Eames’ jacket_ , chilling his leaden skin. “The chemist for Eva Jansen’s job, Ray, died. Emilia, our forger, is gone, and both real and fake Hans are dead - which leaves me with one less architect and one more question mark in this whole situation.”

“Oy, but what about your extractor, Arthur? Jack the Ripper?”

Arthur sighed, exhaling. “I told Sandy to leave the country or die.” Unbidden, disjointed scenes of his first return to consciousness flit through Arthur’s mind - _Sandy’s argumentative voice, Emilia’s quick thinking, the impact of the gun as it slid across Arthur’s cheekbone, Colin’s bodyguard in the corner, slick slick blood and the remains of Ray’s pulverized skull littering the -_

“Fine,” Eames said easily, twirling a disassembled pen he had unearthed from a grimy desk drawer. He flung the spring at Arthur, dragging him back to the present. “But what if she didn’t?”

“Didn’t what?”

Eames just looked at Arthur, his lips parting as he took in the point man’s uncharacteristic disorientation. Arthur, blinking, waved his hand as though to dismiss his composure. “You’re asking me if I think Sandy stayed in Britain? Eames, why would she stay - unless she has a death wish.”

Arthur rapped his fingers against the wall behind him. The stone, like his fingers, was ice.

“It’s obvious she has something to do with this mess,” Arthur muttered.

Eames’ eyes watched Arthur’s extraneous movement hawkishly. “If your wonderful extractor did stay in London, love, that opens a world of possibilities.” Eames leaned in, dragging something out from the depths of his jacket. “Think about it,” the forger said.

Something thunked onto the desk between them. Eames shoved the bag across the surface of the table towards Arthur. Grabbing the bag, Arthur inspected the label warily - ‘Evidence’. _Nice,_  Arthur thought. _Add Eames stealing from the crime scene to my list of risk factors._

At Eames’ nod, Arthur unsealed the bag, extracting its contents. He stared a moment. _A radio._

“Why did you retrieve this?” Arthur asked, inspecting the device more thoroughly. “This is the radio Eddie radioed ‘SOS’ from - you stole it from the crime scene?”

“Of course.”

“And how is this connected to Sandy?” Arthur asked. He stepped closer to Eames, setting the object back on the desk harder than strictly required. _I don’t see why we had to go through all of the separation and delay for this._ “Obviously, I don’t have all the facts, but I hardly doubt Sandy’s arrest warrants in the U.S. are connected with a military radio. Unless you’re suggesting that it was planted?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “This is far-fetched, even for you, Eames.”

“This whole thing is bloody ‘far-fetched’!” Eames threw his hands up, his foot reaching out to poke Arthur’s own. “For all the time I spent hanging about those useless bobbies at the crime scene, I felt like this might have been worth it. Ms. Serial Killer is a prime suspect. You told me she knew this Colin Jansen. And now that Andrea’s gone on off her own - ”

“ - you think Sandy’s implicated,” Arthur finished. “Because for Andrea to be part of whatever Colin is trying to accomplish, someone who knew Hans would have to connect his wife to Jansen. Emilia or Sandy.”

“Convoluted, but possible.” Eames flicked another piece of his destroyed pen towards Arthur, and the point man dodged neatly, avoiding the capsule of ink. “What do you think of this forger you used - ” Eames raised his eyebrow “ - you know, darling, the one you used instead of _me_ , even though I was leagues more qualified and right in bloody London, not to mention - ”

“ - Not to mention Emilia escaped on her own, and came up clean on all background checks,” Arthur cut in. “And even during my escape - ” _What had Hans said? ‘The other man was taken out by Emilia, but not for long!’_ “Emilia helped - even with bullets flying.”

“So either this _Emilia_ was a brilliant actress - ” Here Eames pursed his lips, miffed, “ - but from what you told me, I would think _not -_ ”

“ - and the other suspect is a confirmed psychopath, Eames - ”

“ - so while lacking in forgery skills, I would conclude that - What’s the American saying, Arthur?” Eames tilted back in the desk chair to meet Arthur’s eyes, his expression still partly irritated, partly amused. “If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck…”

Arthur rolled his eyes, setting the radio back onto the desk. He had sat through Eames’ explanation readily, wishing it was the truth. Something had held him back from the stopping the man from the beginning, a niggling spot of distrust - _why did he want to split up, earlier?_  “Look at this,” Arthur asserted. He unzipped his jacket, once more unfolding the newspaper. Shaking the pages to get rid the excess rainwater, Arthur plopped the pile into Eames’ lap. 

Eames looked skeptical, and proceeded to read various titles out loud in a dramatic caricature of a morning news reporter:

 

**‘Police Response to Increasing Pressure for Capture of Suspect at Large’**

 

**‘Women Found Dead River Thames, Suspected Homicide’**

 

**‘Liam Payne - Next to Leave One Direction?’**

 

“So?” Eames looked up. “Crime, death, and pop culture. The usual bollocks, love.”

Arthur tapped his finger onto the second title. And then, at Eames’ pout - “Take a look,” Arthur commanded.

“Yeah, yeah, probably some gang.” Eames’ eyes flicked over the damp paper, his foot tapping an irregular beat on the cement floor. “River, cement shoes, police investigation…” Eames muttered. “Boring.”

“Keep going.”

“Victim is described as… younger woman, curly hair, dark skin…” Eames looked up. “Are you having a laugh, Arthur? Out of all the people in the city?”

“What was it you said about possibilities, Eames?” Arthur said. “It’s Andrea.” Arthur swiped his stolen phone off the desk, displaying a page he had researched earlier. “Here’s the crime scene photos. The job looks professionally done.”

Eames reached out for the phone, newspaper forgotten. He flicked through the pictures quickly, methodically. “You’re right,” he acquiesced, his voice hollow. It was obvious Eames had bonded much closer to Andrea than Arthur originally thought, and now that this headline had just absolved her of any wrongdoing... _Andrea had been an innocent woman caught in a deadly position._

Eames thrust back the phone at Arthur abruptly. “Andrea’s dead, then. Murdered.” Eames swore, his hand slapping his thigh. “And we’re back to bloody square one.”

“Not quite,” Arthur said, dropping down to sit on the edge of the desk. He shifted, uncomfortable, and Eames patted his lap invitingly. Arthur just shook his head, remembering the events of the night. His eyes traced the scratches on Eames’ arm, inflicted by Arthur himself - _Don’t get too close._

“What if - ” Eames stopped himself. “In dreamshare. What is it the architects always harp on about?”

Arthur crossed his arms, turning to better face Eames. He kicked his feet into the forger’s lap. “Detail,” Arthur said. “Imagine even the smallest component of the dream. Use details from real life, but never entire areas.”

“Right as always, darling.”

“Your point?”

“Detail,” Eames echoed. “Do you think Colin Jansen is an organized man?”

Most people did not fit Arthur’s definition of organized. But he humored Eames, if only because he felt mildly guilty for waiting to tell Eames about Andrea. “No,” Arthur stated slowly. “Unhinged, maybe. Desperate. But not organized. When this whole episode… began,” Arthur said, conveniently glossing over his various problems, injuries, and subsequent treatment. “Jansen was desperate. He claimed he wanted in on dreamsharing for persuasion techniques, but also to find out if his mother knew specific stock codes.”

“Stock codes?” Eames asked distractedly, his eyes firmly on Arthur’s shoes, which rested centimeters away from the forger’s chest. _And… other parts_ , Arthur realized.

“Yes, Eames,” Arthur said, quickly shimming his feet farther down Eames’ thighs. Eames caught Arthur’s legs before he could swing them off. “Stock codes to the medication - the one I told you about before. Eszopiclone. Pergamonium?” Arthur’s refresher came out as a question - he was too busy trying to figure out why Eames was obsessed with Arthur’s feet.

Eames waved his hand, as though he couldn’t care less about Jansen’s motivations. “But was he _organized_? Did Jansen know his whole team, all of his bodyguards?”

“Some of them,” Arthur said, flashing back to when Jansen had dug his pistol into Arthur’s cheekbone. _The bodyguard. Adam._ “But the other men that dragged Colin away, the hired help that targeted us the day Eddie went missing - I don’t think Jansen knew them all. Hell, if the fake Hans had been working for Jansen, that means there was friendly fire. That man was shot by a sniper while you got the car.”

“Hmm,” Eames hummed once more. He fingered the end of Arthur’s shoes, quiet.

“What?” Arthur asked finally, annoyed at the seemingly irrelevant questioning.

“These are my shoes,” Eames said finally, his fingers tightening minutely on Arthur’s borrowed oxfords. Arthur just looked at Eames a moment, stunned.

“What the fuck is with you today, Eames?” Arthur jerked his feet out from the forger’s hands, sliding off the desk with a thud. “I’m nationally wanted for fucking murder and not only do you not inform me of your plans, but you wander off to get a _radio_?” He shook his head violently, his back letting out a throb of complaint. “Are you insane, Eames? Are you trying to get us killed?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Eames fired back, suddenly angry. He was up from the chair, disassembled pen forgotten, shirt still unbuttoned. He faced Arthur, his arms crossing over his chest. “You’re distracted and angry and bloody fidgety, and you know you’re not acting yourself, Arthur! You almost killed me last night. You’re lucky you didn’t.”

Arthur felt the urge to blanch at Eames’ words, to balk, but - if anything, the accusations made him even more heated. Out of control. He straightened up even more, hands clenched into loose fists at his sides. “Yeah, I fucking cracked, just because I was stuck at your goddamn house in your goddamn childhood room with your goddamn _mother_ \- who thinks you’re some con artist, not a fucking dream world - ”

“Stop,” Eames said, his countenance stormy, his voice rough. “We’re not talking about her.”

“Oh, we’re not?” Arthur snapped. “Even though I was with her this whole time, out of the picture, removed from this mess, unable to get information, just sitting and waiting and every hour thinking running into your mother was a fucking reckless and avoidable _liability_ \- ”

“Fine then, just go die somewhere else next time,” Eames spat, pushing the radio off the desk with a sweep of his hand. It fell with a loud crack, pieces flying over the cement. “Just go bloody bleed out on someone else’s doorstep, call someone else, throw another crackpot team together that will inevitably go sideways, just because you can’t fucking _enjoy_ life for one minute - ”

“Shut up,” Arthur said, staring at the broken device on the floor.

“No, I will not fucking shut up, you mother - ”

“No,” Arthur interjected, his voice low and hard. “I have an idea.”

“Oh, you have an idea,” Eames said acerbically, his palm clenching the desk, fingernails digging into the wood. “Because all of your ideas have ended _so_ well recently, Arthur.”

“It’s not my idea,” Arthur said impatiently. “It was yours. You said it yourself, Jansen isn’t organized, he doesn’t know all of his men, all of his bodyguards - ”

“- Oh, and I suppose we just stroll in there, right as rain, mirroring their precise outfits, weapons, schedules, and floor plans, is that it?” Eames scoffed. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

“Because we were thinking too small,” Arthur said, stealing Eames’ recently vacated seat. He tapped at a few buttons on his phone, staring at the screen impassively. “We just need sway.”

“Sway.” Eames looked tired. “And what kind of ‘sway’ would that be, Arthur?”

Arthur looked up from his phone, his fingers pausing over the lighted screen. “The kind that can buy out an airline company, Eames.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate everyone's patience with the slow updates. I'm hoping around November I can get more consistent again, but until then, sorry :P  
>   
> Comments, criticisms, and/or kudos make my day, truly.
> 
> Here's my [Tumblr](https://randombitsofstars.tumblr.com/) if you feel inclined to chat, fangirl about Inception, or want sporadic excerpts and chapter hints. :)


	23. Palpitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that sensation when you miss a step on the stairway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading! <3

“Arthur.”

“Mr. Saito.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure? This is not a personal inquiry, I take it?” Arthur could hear murmuring in the background, low obedient voices, and he imagined Saito in his mind’s eye, attendants on hand. Saito waved them all off imperiously in Arthur’s brain, efficiently, his red tie a focal point in a sea of white and grey.

Arthur cleared his throat. “No, not a personal inquiry, Mr. Saito. A cashing in, you would say.”

“A favor.”

“A… mutually assured debt.” _After all we’ve gone through_. “We’ve had our interests intertwined, Mr. Saito, there’s no use denying it.”

“That was awhile ago, Mr. Arthur.” It was true, Arthur reflected, the Fischer inception seemed ages ago, a pyramid lost in the swirl of time. _But sending in David_ -

“I - ” Arthur stopped, absorbing Saito’s words fully. Words felt thick on his tongue, and he very pointedly did not look towards Eames, who sat next to him in the warehouse - in fact, Arthur had succeeded in momentarily forgetting about the displeased forger until this very second. _Just go bloody bleed out on someone else’s doorstep, call someone else -_

Once more, Arthur cleared his throat. “Correct, we haven’t worked together directly in some time, Mr. Saito, but I think sending in David was welcome assistance. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in such a… predicament.”

Arthur resolutely avoided Eames’ gaze, although he had a feeling the man was stewing in his own thoughts - _I was stuck at your goddamn house in your goddamn childhood room with your goddamn mother -_

Arthur resisted the urge to peek up at Eames, and it took him a second to realize the phone connection was quiet, Saito’s presence only audible by the slight shifting of his suit. _Does he not want to speak about the incident at Eddie’s cafe?_ Arthur wondered. _Has it been so long that I’ve fallen from his graces? After all, Eames and I haven’t fixed this mess -_ I _haven’t fixed this mess, in fact, I’m wanted by the Brits and everyone else at the moment -_

“David?” Saito’s voice echoed over the line, questioning. Arthur’s thoughts flashed back to David’s entrance into his life, into the splintering of wood as he burst through Eddie’s cafe, a last resort - _throw another crackpot team together that will inevitably go sideways -_

“Yes, David.” Arthur didn’t even know the man’s last name. “He would have contacted you -” Arthur hesitated, mental days blending together in a rush, innate clock thrown out of circadian rhythm, out of any rhythm - _I don’t know how long has it been since I was shot - why can I not remember_ \- “ - some time ago.” Arthur swallowed, sight skittering over Eames. “David told us - Eames and I - David had gotten your number from a business card, months ago. He said that you knew of the deal between himself and Eames - an SOS sort of thing.” Arthur cut off abruptly, aware he had been rambling.

The line was hushed once more, and Arthur decided charged silence was not a good sign. _Don’t look at Eames, don’t look at Eames -_

“There was never such a deal I was aware of. I neither disseminated such information of mine, nor facilitated transportation for a British man - and decidedly not one named David.” Saito’s words were crisp as always, but his consonants felt heavy, like blows.

Arthur swallowed. “Thank you, Mr. Saito. That is all for now.” Eames’ foot tapped once, catching the edge of Arthur’s pants as he passed. It broke Arthur out of his pacing. _That was the point._ A reminder. “I’ll keep in touch,” Arthur said quickly. “After Eames and I speak, we might require assistance with - logistics.” _With equipment. With a fucking bullet to blow my brains out and get rid of this mess._

Saito paused once more, absorbing the underlying context of Arthur’s response. The businessman’s answer was careful, smooth. “I would suggest getting to the source. Find where the deception has been kicked over instead of buried, and dig up the loose ends - until it’s over. And, Arthur - ”

“Yes?”

“I would be… content to lend my assistance. After our _intertwined interests_.”

“That’s much appreciated, Mr. Saito.”

The line cut off.

 _Because all of your ideas have ended_ so _well recently, Arthur._

 

***

 

Arthur felt disconnected. The warehouse around him was a pinpoint of reality in a sloshing sea of misinformation, deceit, confusion -

He barely registered slipping the phone back into his pants, the pair Eames had made fun of seconds earlier, days earlier, _minutes earlier_ -

“I don’t know.”

“What, Arthur?” Eames spoke from his position at the desk chair, next to his stolen radio. Arthur looked at him, really looked at him. He saw the five o’clock shadow, the slight bruises under his long eyelashes. Eames was out of sorts, flushed spots high on his cheekbones. The sparks flying in his mercurial irises hinted he was still coming off their fight. And yet Eames still looked more grounded than Arthur felt.

“What?” Eames repeated, standing. “You don’t know _what_?” He stepped forward. “The phone call didn’t go well. You talked about David. What did Saito have to say, Arthur?”

Arthur exhaled. He slowly, deliberately forced himself to reach into Eames’ jacket.

His dice clattered as they rolled across the desk, into the radio. _Twin threes._

“It’s David,” Arthur acknowledged. In short, clipped tones Arthur relayed the phone call. It was only when he reached the part where Saito seemed to have no knowledge of David, of the Brit’s ability to immerse himself into Arthur’s predicament, into Eames’ life -

Eames swore.

Arthur felt cold.

This was beyond a simple fuck up. This was beyond a complex fuck up. This oversight was a monumental rift in time, a gaping hole in the fucking tapestry of the universe, this was -

“This is dangerous,” Arthur said, air rushing out of his lungs like a punch. _David is the one who is helping Jansen. Who_ _was helping Jansen all along. The information, the suggestions, the car rides, the radio signal -_ “We need - I need to - ”

“Get my mum,” Eames said grimly. He was motionless as Arthur explained the phone call, a statue. A betrayal. _David was supposed to be Eames’ friend. His military friend._ “We’ll need the weapons and the disguises from Saito as soon as possible.” Eames exhaled sharply, processing. “You realize if we had no chance of sneaking in to find Jansen before, we have zero bloody chance of it now - ” Eames dragged his hand across his face, a break in his cool façade. “Fuck,” he muttered. “All that trust - ” Eames broke off. “If he had David in his pocket - ”

“ - the radio signal could have been tapped - ”

“ - and who knows how much other information Jansen collected through David.” Eames looked at Arthur, and Arthur looked back. There was nothing to say. They had no time to resolve their differences. Iris was in danger. _Because of me._

“I’ll get her.” Arthur snatched his dice off the desk. His movements were choppy, quick - _r_ _unning into your mother was a fucking reckless and avoidable liability -_ “I’ll get Iris,” Arthur promised, stronger, hand wrapping around Eames’ bicep. “It will be fine.”

They both looked at Arthur’s hand. Arthur backed off instantly, half-formed plans skittering across his mind, past interactions, _the stars are beautiful tonight, Eames_ , Ray’s head partially missing his skull, _Eames is not my boyfriend_ , the twisted glow of the dented lamp across the hotel room floor, _Your Guardian Angel <3_, “Fuck - ”

“It will be fine,” Eames echoed. His hand encircled Arthur’s forearm and Arthur’s whirling mind clicked back to this morning, to Eames’ body heat, his _warmth_ -

Arthur’s hand clung to Eames’ bicep. They stood there, locked in their embrace, emotions snapping around them like the cracking of whips -

Guilt crashed over Arthur like a flood - _g_ _o bloody bleed out on someone else’s doorstep, call someone else -_

Arthur didn’t know when his hands had slid down to grasp Eames’ forearms, but suddenly he was tracing gentle circles on the underside of Eames’ bare flesh. _If Eames loses Iris because of the danger I brought upon her_ -

“I’ll go, I need to go,” Arthur said. But he didn’t move. They didn’t move. “I can get her, Eames, we’ll figure it out, you can follow the source - ”

“I’ll look along the Thames.” Eames was staring at Arthur’s fingers on his skin. “It’s bloody likely Andrea went to investigate along there before she was done in.”

Eames’ thumbs drew quiet halos through Arthur’s jacket.

“Let’s find you an auto,” Eames said.

 

***

 

The noise of London - _afternoon, is it?_ \- jarred Arthur. He let Eames sniff out the perfect car, not even protesting as the forger proceeded to break into some ridiculous coupe. “It’ll be fast,” Eames said. “Fords are usually fast.”

 _Well, I do need to reach your mother._ “If I die because you had to pick the most ostentatious vehicle in a ten kilometer radius, I’m haunting you, Eames.” Eames was silent, but a few seconds later, he leaned out of the open car door, engine rumbling.

“You’d be a terrible ghost, Arthur.”

“I disagree Eames. I would be able to critique your horrendous wardrobe choices. All day.”

“And what a joy that would be.” Eames smoothed down his collar, heaving the door open wider. “Come along, Arthur.”

“What, you’re going to be the gentlemen?”

“I’m always the perfect gentleman, darling.” Eames’ eyes followed Arthur’s skinny-jean clad ass as the point man slipped around him to the driver’s seat. They trailed up to Arthur’s face as he leaned against the driver’s side, not entering. Logically, Arthur knew that he should get in, that every second he stood there with the Ford’s engine running increased their probability getting caught. Yet something felt unresolved, untried. Eames’ fingers rapped against the black car’s shiny paint job.

“I’m sorry.” The words fell from their lips and into the pause simultaneously, layers of meaning reverberating through the space between them - _I’m sorry I involved my mum in this, I’m sorry I got fucking shot, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to work with me, I’m sorry I get nightmares and try to claw your arms out of your sockets, I’m sorry I didn’t get properly drunk with you years ago, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m -_

“Stop.” Eames leaned in this time, silencing both of their thoughts. His hands trailed down Arthur’s form, tracing over his biceps, his forearms, his waist. The space between them shrunk incrementally until Arthur’s borrowed, scuffed Oxfords touched Eames’ dark shoes.

Arthur laid his hands on Eames’ shoulders.

“If you wanted to slow dance you only needed to ask, Arthur.” Eames’ voice was rough.

It wasn’t the perfect moment. Eames’ hands were too tense on Arthur’s waist and his smirk didn’t quite break the usual planes of his face.

It didn’t matter.

Arthur scoffed, his eye-roll natural, practiced, a rhythm neither of them could shake. His hands rested on the hot skin bridging Eames’ neck to his wide shoulders. “I don’t think I’d want lessons from you,” Arthur said, shuffling closer regardless. He was acutely aware of the noises of London surrounding them.

He barely startled when the forger’s large palms curled over his hips, warm, possessive. “I’ll have you know I’m quite the dancer, Arthur.” Eames voice dipped low next to Arthur’s ear, a brush of stubble on Arthur’s neck.

“I’ve heard Brits are quite the stuffy lot, really.” Arthur’s terrible imitation of Eames’ accent made them both relax a tiny bit more. Eames smiled at Arthur - a real, genuine grin, nothing like the smirk he usually sent his way. Arthur returned the expression for just a second, lips pulling to show a hint of teeth - just for the echo of Saito’s voice to electrify his nerves all over again. _“David?”_

“Fuck,” Arthur spat, suddenly angry, angry at fucking everything - _you can’t fucking enjoy life for one minute_. “Shit. I need to leave.”

“You do,” Eames said, quietly agreeing, his smile vanished.

But Eames’ hands didn’t fall from Arthur’s sides. If anything, they tightened, reluctant to let the point man escape into the car, into the falling dusk, into the future. “Just, darling - ” and the heat was gone from Arthur’s hip; caressing, brushing along the barely-there stubble of Arthur’s jawline, fingers dancing over the curve of his healed cheekbone, inspecting the mole that lingered just under Arthur’s right eye. And they rested like that, Eames’ palm a warm presence against Arthur’s chilled flesh.

And Arthur thought - _I’ve made so many mistakes already, I might as well make another_ \- which was such an Eames way to think, really, that the notion made Arthur’s face split into both a grin and a grimace - but he was touching Eames’ hand, urging the man closer, closer -

Their lips collided at an aggressive angle, Arthur’s semi-parted and dry, Eames’ full and hot - and they were kissing chastely, at odds with the forcefulness in which they both pressed against each other, the car hard behind them, a warring of apologies and anger and passion smashed into one. Arthur could feel the attentiveness between them, the single-minded determination in which they were resisting the fact that there was no _time_ -

Eames’ fingers slid to tangle into the dark silk of Arthur’s hair, and he capitalized on the slant in which Arthur originally attacked, accepting the unspoken invitation of Arthur’s mouth, his ghosting exhales. The kiss was not chaste anymore, it was something in which Arthur couldn’t define, wouldn’t define. _A dying man gasping for air._

It was eons before they broke apart, gasping, and Arthur reflexively touched his lips, searching for evidence of their kiss, their breach in the unspoken line of their relationship. Eames’ pupils dilated as he followed the motion.

A car horn sounded close by, and they both blinked.

“Eames.”

“Darling.”

Arthur slid into the car.

Eames’ palm hesitated a second too long on the door frame.

Arthur forced himself not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Apologies, as per usual, for the long absence. I am doing my best. Happily though, this story is on the upswing - the next few chapters will be a bit dicey, so hang on!
> 
> Also, domlerrys graciously (and amazingly) illustrated a bit of [fanart](http://domlerrys.tumblr.com/image/153037935582) for Chapter 17, War. Hit her with all the kudos! (and a reminder that I welcome all interpretations of fanart, you all amaze me ;) ). 
> 
> Happy holidays. Comments and kudos are appreciated. Until next time. <3
> 
> A bit of a P.S. For new and returning readers, you can expect a new update mid to late February :)


	24. Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur reunites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Reading! <3

The Ford rumbled on the outskirts of London, shaded under the cover of arched oak trees. Arthur sat in the warm leather of the driver’s seat methodically inspecting his Glock. Mentally, he ran through the floorplan of Iris’ cottage, fingers systematically brushing over the nylon-based polymer of his gun. _Points of entry: front door, side door, windows. Small kitchen, sequestered living room…_

_Best case scenario, Iris is fine. Worst case, David tipped someone off and -_

Arthur shut off the engine.

He padded quickly to the front of Iris’ property, shirt collar chafing uncomfortably around his neck as he paralleled the driveway. Arthur angled his course to the front of the walk, intending to swipe the spare key -

_The gnome is out of place. Shifted._

Arthur exhaled sharply.

A breeze came up from behind him, ruffling his too-long hair. He followed the motion across the grass, blades rippling as the current swept across the front yard. And then - subtle. A tiny fragment out of place.

One of the curtains had moved. And if it could move -

 _Someone opened and partially closed the window. Carelessly. Hurriedly._ Arthur waited a second more, and he spotted motion inside the house. _The cottage is compromised._

 

***

 

Arthur was gripped by a sense of déjà vu as Eames’ padlock fell into his waiting hand. For a second, he rewinded, wondering, thinking - _Eames could always do this faster, why did he let me lockpick the shed before -_ and then more memories, hurried, jumbled, smears across the fabric of his eyelids - _“Call me Eames”_ , Eames’ righteous anger as he stood over ‘Hans’ in Eddie’s cafe, full lips curled into a soft smirk out the Land Rover’s window, the scent of faint aftershave, hotel soap and sweat -

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. _Get yourself together. Time is ticking away._ He swiftly stepped into the shed’s interior, Oxfords clicking against the slats of the wooden floor. Blinking rapidly, Arthur leaned over a workbench, willing his eyes to adjust faster to the dim light. Slowly, shapes of scattered tools came into being in front of him. He evaluated his options, snagging a dusty sack out from underneath the workbench. _Pick your poison_ , a voice drawled in Arthur’s ear.

For a second, Arthur was surrounded by the scorching sand of Egypt.

He straightened up, bag in hand, and forced himself to relax his grip on his Glock.

 

***

 

 _Camera one. Two. Three._ From his vantage point in the tree line, Arthur tallied the various cameras surrounding the first floor of the cottage. He had noticed them before. _Long before._ It seemed like ages ago he was doing pushups by the back door, dripping with sweat, _and Iris had called him inside_ -

Arthur shook his head. _Focus._ Although the cottage had cameras he couldn’t spot any in working operation. Moreover, Arthur didn’t see a single heat sensor on the trim of the windows, and zero tint or reinforced glass in the panes themselves. _Breaking in would be laughably easy_ , Arthur thought.

As he sized up the house’s structural integrity, a scene formed in Arthur’s mind, unbidden - Eames, slightly younger, a trademark patterned shirt, overlong hair. Iris, framed in the light of the small kitchen, apron on and glasses resting around her neck. Both were heated, eyes flashing, mirrored images as they argued over modifications to the cottage.

 _“I’m afraid Eames didn’t tell me we would have a visitor.”_ Iris’ initial defiance had never abated in Arthur’s presence. _Maybe Iris has more sway than even she thinks_. _This place is undoubtedly unlike any other of Eames’ safehouses. It would be a wonder to see Eames and Iris interact, given -_

 _You never will see them together if you don’t get in there and fix the situation_ , his subconscious snapped.

Arthur dropped the sack onto the grass beside him and got to work.

He pulled two wrenches from the bag’s depths, crossing them perpendicular before securing them tight with twine. Placing them to the side, Arthur extracted a tow rope, frown increasing as he inspected the mold growing along its surface. He paused to push up his sleeves, fabric sticking over the healing, shiny skin from the forearm burn. Arthur hissed, annoyed.

A faint but noticeable _thump_ sounded from somewhere inside the cottage, and Arthur gave up on his sleeves to finish the connection between the rope and the wrenches.

_Love, that is the most rubbish grappling hook I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on._

Arthur tried to remember the time when the only voice occupying his mind was his own.

 

***

 

 _My life is composed of making entrances in and out of windows,_ Arthur mused.

He threw the makeshift grappling hook onto the shingles of the cottage, eyes tracking the progress of the projectile as the rope wrapped itself around the stones of the chimney. Arthur pulled once, twice, making sure the hook held. He looked down at himself, checking to confirm his gun and the sack were secure. His eyes flickered back to the tree line, inspecting for any evidence of disturbance. Light filtered lazily through the gaps in the leaves, and in a constellation of sunlight, Arthur saw Orion’s Belt.

He blinked twice and centered his focus on the tow rope in front of him.

 

***

 

Oxfords were not Arthur’s first choice of climbing shoe. Really, he had a lot of experience scaling buildings to make up his mind. Any amount of practice couldn’t compensate for the way the Oxford’s slick soles slipped on the grooves of the cottage’s walls. Arthur was a fall away from revealing his presence, and he knew it well.

Yet Arthur was loathe to breach the cottage from any other angle than the second floor. _Higher ground - where they least expect me._

So he continued to climb, muscles straining beneath his tight dress shirt and hands perspiring on the coarse fibers of the rope. It reminded Arthur too much of simulations he had run with his men, and real life missions scaling the faces of Afghan mountains.

 _This is just a house_ , Arthur told himself. _One realistic nightmare and you can’t devolve into irrationality._

His fingers edged over the slope of the roof in front of him and his shoulder muscles strained as he pulled the rest of his body onto the shingles.

Arthur ran a hand over his hair and placed the slack rope at his feet, breathing elevated. He edged his way down the slant of the roof, feet digging in just above the jut of an upstairs window. _Eames’ childhood room_.

Arthur dropped down to crouch on the sill in one smooth motion, Glock at the ready. The bedroom seemed empty through the pane of glass, bedcovers unruffled. Arthur’s eyes trailed along the frame of the window critically. _No tripwires_. He felt around along the window’s edges, unsurprised to find it locked. Arthur untucked the brown sack from his belt and rifled through the contents. _A credit card would be better, but…_

Seconds later, the spring bolts around the edges of the frame popped open from the pressure of the screwdriver. _Here we go_ , Arthur thought, and slid the window open silently. Seconds later his feet connected with the floorboards of Eames’ childhood room.

The house was quiet as Arthur closed the window behind him. _Too quiet._ Iris had to be here, but there was no sound of feet on floorboards, tea on the kettle, or even her beloved evening program. Everything was still.

Arthur cleared the second floor fairly rapidly. He was in his element, staying close to the walls, slinking around every threshold and checking every corner and closet. His gut pulled him downstairs, but Arthur knew he couldn’t rush. _Slow is smooth, smooth is fast_.

He was just cracking open the last bedroom door when an undeniably human gasp echoed up the stairway, feminine and pained. Arthur twitched _. It helps no one if you get clubbed from behind while descending the stairway._ He continued forward into Iris’ bedroom.

Arthur scanned the bedroom through the sights of his Glock. _No tripwires over the door, closet, windows. Clear corners, dresser -_ but the covers of Iris’ bed were thrown back, tangled. Arthur knew for a fact Iris made her bed every morning. _No signs of struggle, but deviation from habit -_

 _Threat. Distance weapons_ , Arthur thought. _Firearms._

It was time to descend the stairway.

 

***

 

Arthur couldn’t claim to defuse hostage situations for a living, but he was in no way a stranger to them. It made sense that as soon as he took in the scene in the kitchen, Arthur’s brain clicked into action.

_Analyze the victim, attacker if possible. Catalogue the weapons, the trauma inflicted on the victim. Go through points of exit, signs of struggle._

It was all rudimentary. Familiar.

What wasn’t familiar was the connection Arthur felt to the victim. Around his cover, he could clearly make out the person tied to the wooden chair. Mid sixties, floral dress, downcast face and greying brown hair falling in chunks from a bun. _Iris._

A gag hung loosely around her throat, contrary to the rope stretched tight across her waist, wrists, and shins. Deep bruises lingered near her legs, and Arthur could see one pink shoe dislodged from Iris’ foot - _kicked off_ , Arthur’s brain supplied. Even from his cover behind the wall and a dresser, Arthur could see red rope burns near her tied wrists. _Iris has been here for awhile_ , Arthur thought. _Or struggled._ Arthur thought about what he knew of Iris and revised - _definitely struggled._

Arthur pulled his focus away from Iris’ state, cognizant of her blatant presence as bait. _And still no sign of her captors._ There hadn’t been any signs of life in the upstairs rooms, nothing out of -

“They’ll probably never come,” a voice drawled cheerfully to Arthur’s right, identity shielded by the wall in front of him. “You’re expendable,” the voice continued. “Unimportant.”

Iris coughed once, her eyes flickering up briefly. Arthur could hear sound pass weakly from her lips, but couldn’t make out the sound.

“What was that, you bitch? Going to try and kick me again?” _Familiar cadence. Female._

“I said,” Iris paused a moment to swallow painfully, voice hoarse but determined, “I said, you would’ve killed me by now if I was expendable.”

“Ah, but you’re not the person who I’m waiting on.” _I’m - Iris’ captor is one person?_ “As you would have figured out by now, you’re just enticement - and if Arthur returns because of you, you’ll be worth it. If he doesn’t…” _She uses my name like she knows me._ Intuition skittered down Arthur’s spine, cold and putrescent. He began to run through scenarios, mindful of probable firearms. _But now I know one attacker - things have changed._ Arthur decided to monitor the situation a bit longer. _I need to collect information - interrogate her, if possible._

“Of course, do you know what would be a bonus?” Arthur found himself resisting the urge to sigh. He always clashed with the chatty ones. _If a captor decides to put a hostage in plain sight near the back entrance, they’ll be expecting a entry from -_

“Your son would be a wonderful add-on, you know?” Iris’ features noticeably tightened at the mention of Eames. “Yes, your son,” the assailant continued. “Arthur’s the big trophy in this calculation, but your son - ” Footsteps sounded across the linoleum and a figure appeared in the corner of Arthur’s vision.

“ - is nearly as useful.”

Everything happened at once. Iris, straining against the rope looped around her thighs, managed to fling her second shoe off in the direction of attacker. Presumably, the assailant kicked the object, where it crashed into the wall next to Arthur. He shifted out of instinct, closer to the dresser. Close enough that, as the aggressor stepped forward to topple Iris’ chair with an angry jerk, Arthur received a full view of Iris banging jarringly against the floor, helpless to brace herself as her head slammed into the tiles.

The momentum from the captor’s motion had Iris skidding, dazed, her back contacting with the wall across from Arthur’s. Iris blinked, eyes unfocused, a cut dripping blood at her hairline. Arthur didn’t move.

And yet, now they were in direct sight of each other. In seconds, Iris’ eyes widened as she took in another person’s presence, and then grew wider in recognition as the presence registered as Arthur himself - but Arthur wasn’t returning her gaze.

He was peering past her calculatingly, towards the former location of her chair, towards the center of the chaos - where her captor now stood.

A captor Arthur recognized all too well.

  
_Sandy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say how frustrating it is for me to be unable to stick to a regular updating schedule. I thank you for dealing with my unpredictability and sticking with this narrative. I really hope you're enjoying it.
> 
> Comments and kudos are beyond appreciated - they keep me writing :)
> 
> added note 27 Nov. 2017 - please see me under the same username on my tumblr for updates, but I expect to publish again this upcoming winter!


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